Extrapolation
by Aedalena
Summary: Harry travels back in time to defeat Grindelwald. But an old enemy is aiding Grindelwald, a student named Tom Riddle. How far will Harry go to fulfil a mission? When the fate of the world rests both in the past and the future, nothing is a certainty.
1. Crossing the Gap

**Title:** Extrapolation   
**Rating:** PG-13, R in later chapters; ratings for language, violence, death, implied rape.   
**Genre:** Action/Adventure, Drama, Angst   
**Summary:** Harry Potter travels back to the year 1944 to help the Dumbledore of that time defeat the Dark Lord Grindelwald. But there's a catch: only a select number of people can know that he's from the future--and Dumbledore's not one of them. And Grindelwald isn't the only thing Harry has to worry about. An old enemy is helping his new enemy...a Hogwarts student by the name of Tom Riddle. How far will Harry go to see Grindelwald dead? And will he learn to let his own dark past lie?   
**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and affiliated characters and concepts all belong to J.K. Rowling. I make no profit spinning my yarns, aside from the enjoyment playing around in her world brings.   
_Note on italicised segments:_ These are flashback sequences. Except for the newspaper bit, I suppose. 

**EXTRAPOLATION**   
**_Chapter One: Crossing the Gap_**

It was an epic test of will, wherein the champion of the Wizarding world struggled against the steaming goblet of blood red potion that stood in front of him with deceptive innocence. Deceptive because Harry knew exactly what it would do if he drank it. And because he knew, he asked himself one more time why he was sitting here at this small table, staring down a potion like it was something to fear. Though perhaps it was. 

It wasn't because Dumbledore had asked. The headmaster had requested many favours of him over the years, but Harry had long since repaid any debts he owed to his old mentor. And it was not because he had any desire to save the world yet again. That was duty; not a favour owed. A given, a constant in the turmoil of these tumultuous times. 

What it all boiled down to, he finally decided, was that he needed to do something to fill the void in his life, so that he didn't have to think about all of his losses. Once he did, he was afraid he would never be able to stop. And maybe he wanted to know what had changed Tom Riddle from star pupil to the most feared dark wizard since Grindelwald, because there was always the fear that the same switch lurked in him, however many times he triumphed over evil. Then there was the irrefutable fact that, in essence, he'd _already_ done so for Dumbledore to have remembered him. 

Here it was, his chance. Once he spoke one last time with the headmaster, all he had to do was drink the potion. 

It would undoubtably be easier if it did not look so much like blood. The maroon fumes that floated off the surface of the brew, dispersing the nauseating smell of old socks mixed with the too familiar odour of burnt human flesh, did nothing to bolster his eagerness, either. But Harry had spent much of his life doing brave things while inwardly cringing. It grew easier with time, until you had to remember how to cringe again. 

Not to say that he felt the need to. Nothing really frightened him anymore. Somewhere on his journey from insecure student to outcast Auror, he'd lost that ability. Shock after shock piling up one after the other until the trauma reached a point where it couldn't touch him anymore. Or he couldn't touch it. He wasn't sure which it was. Perhaps once a year, he spent a moment regretting that loss. Fear was a survival trait. The rest of the time, he regarded it as a kind of blessing. In its absence, he was able to meet the death he witnessed every day without flinching. Or screaming. Though some days, he really wished he could. 

What he did miss was laughter. Not the bitter and black kind; that he still had ample access to. No, he missed the simple ability to see the humour in everyday things and take enjoyment in life. That gift of innocent humour (which he had realised, too late, was indeed a gift) had departed swiftly the day he'd lost his two best friends. He had friends now, of course. They were named cynicism and pragmaticism. But they were poor substitutes, like trying to satisfy oneself with the shadow of a thing rather than the real thing itself. 

That loss had been enough to give him the strength to meet Lord Voldemort on equal ground and imprison him. Not destroy him, no, because the secret of doing so was still unknown to everyone but Voldemort himself. But here, and now, when the world was grateful enough for a chance to catch its breath, it was enough. 

What Harry could still do--very well--was hate. And his hatred for Voldemort was legendary, undiluted. It bordered on unhealthy, according to his remaining friends, but they didn't know that he had another name for it. Strength. Strength that gave him the fortitude to fight the desperate fight every second that could be spared. And even that determination had failed to do more than see Voldemort neutralised for three short years, imprisoned in so mild a manner that the irony bit. 

A sleeping enchantment. That most powerful wizard in centuries could be contained by so simple a means was laughable, but for all of his research, Harry had been unable to think of anything else. A more permanent solution for the Dark Lord, preferably death, remained as elusive now as it had been a year ago. Worse, it was near impossible to contain a wizard of Voldemort's power for very long, so even this enchantment would not last. But Harry would continue to lend his time and skills to finding a way. He was used to achieving the impossible. 

By no means was his predicament simplified by the fact that Voldemort was immortal. Immortal, in the sense that he would not die of old age--or anything else that they currently knew of so far, for that matter, so perhaps a more fitting term would be _invulnerable_. Though in becoming ageless, Voldemort had inadvertently passed the ability on his enemy, Harry Potter, through the twisted bond they shared since that fateful day when the dark wizard's Killing Curse had failed to kill the small child. 

A small victory, but like most victories these days, bitter. Harry didn't share Voldemort's fierce desire to live forever. In his opinion, even the typical wizard lifespan of two hundred years was too long. After all, he had no family to go home to after a hard day's work. The friends he had were few and scarce. Remus, Sirius, and Minerva; two were one generation ahead of him and the other, three generations, but there were times he felt impossibly older than them. Tonks was closest, but both of them were always so busy, they hardly had time to spend together anymore. 

He was twenty-three years old and had no plans for what to do with his life should he ever defeat Voldemort. Even Quidditch held little appeal for him anymore, a fact that his old schoolmate Oliver Wood could not seem to grasp. He owled Harry occasionally to bemoan the loss of what he called "the greatest Seeker ever born." How could he explain that after being at war so long, you started seeing it in everything? In something as simple and innocuous as a Quidditch competition? 

And darkness clung to his life, never quite disappearing for all of his efforts. Whenever Harry defeated one evil wizard, another would claw his way to the top of the pyramid of dark power to challenge him again. Nature abhorred a vacuum. The unfairness was almost enough to make Harry abhor nature. 

And there was also Voldemort to consider, always. Harry tried not to think of him too often, because he couldn't help but shudder at the memory of sick hunger in the wizard's eyes. Hunger for power, insatiable ambition. He desired all power he could get his hands on. Harry, a powerful wizard in his own right and one with a very close link, had been one of his most sought-after sources. But Voldemort had never gained access to Harry's own power, he thought with fierce satisfaction. 

Not for a lack of trying. The nightmares, waking and otherwise, blackmail, trickery and murder...all of it to lure him in. Don't start, he instructed himself, but his mental voice quivered. Perhaps he was still capable of fearing one thing. Voldemort. 

"I am loath to dispel any suspicions you might hold about this potion, but the headmaster insists on seeing you now. I have not poisoned it, Potter, so you may cease your examination. It's hardly as though you would be able to differentiate between a properly brewed potion and a dangerous one, if you are still as incompetent at potion making as you were in my class." 

Harry didn't even turn around. He'd known the instant Severus Snape had entered the room. His rapidly growing ability to discern magical signatures was causing him a good deal of discomfort, but he knew it would be useful for a person of his profession, so he did nothing to hinder the learning process. What was not immediately dangerous had potential as a future weapon. Let Snape keep his petty delusion that he'd managed to sneak up on the notoriously alert Harry Potter. 

"Professor," he said, finally turning around and facing the potions master. "Excuse me. I didn't hear you come in." 

He received the dubious reward of a cynical smile from Snape. Vaguely, he wondered if the man gained pleasure from anything other than one-upping other people, then firmly told himself that it was not his to pass judgement. He knew too little about Snape to form any opinion that would be more than a guess. Nor had he ever felt the desire to. 

"You are prepared?" the professor asked unnecessarily, his black eyes assuming their usual probing stare. Occlumency was a difficult habit to break oneself of, particularly for someone who had practiced it for as long as Snape. 

"Yes." He'd packed, unpacked, repacked, and repeated the process several times before he was satisfied with what he was bringing. 

"The headmaster would like to speak with you before you leave. See him in his office." 

The man turned on his heels and strode out of the small, dark room Harry used whenever he visited Hogwarts, whether for business or, increasingly rarely, for pleasure. For the thousandth time, Harry pondered the professor's strange hatred for him. Over the years, that hatred had tapered down to something like grudging acceptance, but there were times when that old spark of anger resurfaced to remind Harry that people were not as predictable as he liked to think. 

He mentally shook himself and picked up his magically lightened trunk, making his way to the headmaster's office. As he walked down the corridors, Harry tried to move quickly. There were ghosts walking beside him in every hall. Not the Hogwarts ghosts either; these ones existed only for him, vivid memories brought to life through the magic of Hogwarts or otherwise, he wasn't certain. 

He could see Hermione, bushy-hair and all, lugging a bulging pack to Arithmancy class. Ron leafed through a new Quidditch book he'd checked out of the library, after Hermione had nagged him to borrow some book, _any_ book, so long as he got some actual reading done this school term. Draco hovered sulkily, almost out of sight, just another pawn of darkness who had not even lived past Hogwarts. Without Crabbe and Goyle flanking him, he looked curiously small and alone. 

Sometimes, his mind conjured up Ginny and Cho, when it was feeling particularly malicious. Cho, with her bright eyes and ready smile, running a hand through her glossy black hair. Graduating from Hogwarts had done much to help her recover from her own losses, so much so that Harry had hardly recognised her upon first meeting her during an Auror training exercise. He'd been smitten all over again, but by a woman that time. 

And Ginny, the uncomplaining pillar of strength that had never failed Harry. His best friend when it was death to have such a hold on his heart. His little sister, she'd scoffed often, or maybe his nanny. Often both. It was he who'd failed, in the end. Ginny had paid dearly for his mistakes. His fist clenched at his side. 

Harry closed his eyes carefully and opened them again and the ghosts dimmed. He'd completed that emotional gauntlet to reach the gargoyle statue that guarded Dumbledore's room. Harry murmured the password quietly. It never failed to amaze Dumbledore how he managed to "guess" the sweet right on his first try. Harry, who'd learnt to guard the secret of his strange, slowly developing abilities, never told him how he knew. "Reading" magical objects, like speaking Parselmouth, was considered a trademark of dark magic. Another inheritance from Voldemort, he supposed. 

"Ah, Harry," said the headmaster with a pleasant smile when Harry entered. "I would offer you tea, but our time is regrettably short. Could I interest you in a sherbet lemon, instead?" 

Harry graciously accepted, blank faced and polite. He could not bring himself to tell the headmaster he'd lost his liking for sherbet lemons after a harrowing encounter with one dark witch, Helga, who had specialised in the universally despised school of blood magic. That little girl's pile of sherbet lemons, coated in the blood that oozed from cuts all over her small body...Harry discreetly slipped the candy into a pocket with intent to dispose of it later. 

"You wanted to talk?" he said, reigning in a sudden impatience to get away--from the room or from this time, he was not certain. From himself and his memories and Voldemort, the only things he couldn't ever get away from. 

"Yes." Dumbledore popped a candy into his mouth, sucking enthusiastically. Harry kept his face impassive, though it was difficult not to wince. "I wanted to make sure you were prepared for this mission. It will be difficult, especially for you, I would imagine." The light in the headmaster's eyes shuttered slightly, but his voice retained its impressive blend of cheerfulness and solemnity. "My past self should under no circumstances learn of your purpose. I can vaguely recall a serious young man with dark hair and impressive green eyes that helped me defeat Grindelwald, but at that age, I fear I was a bit jumpy. Almost paranoid, if you can envision that!" 

A thoughtful frown pulled Harry's lips down. It was hard to imagine the merry, if rather loopy, headmaster as a paranoid part-time Auror and Transfiguration professor. Strange as it was, he'd have to keep it in mind after arriving in the past. 

"Do you remember anything else about me or what I did, Professor?" 

"Surely we have known each other long enough for you to call me Albus, Harry." There was the kind smile again, the one that invited you to unburden yourself. "I do recall that you spent some time as a student. How long, I do not know exactly. I suspect that you placed a low-strength memory charm on me before you returned to the future." 

Harry gave his future-past self a mental nod of commendation. It was a comfort to know that he had kept his senses even in a strange time, on a stranger mission. 

"If that's all, I suppose I should begin," he said. "I've taken care of everything I could think of." 

"Ah! That reminds me." The headmaster went to his desk and retrieved an odd cylinder with a red button on top. "This is what I have fondly termed the 'Panic Button.' If you find yourself in a situation that you doubt you can escape, press this red button and say 'mayday' and I will send another Auror after you." 

Dumbledore certainly did hold great affection for Muggle things, Harry noted. Then he raised an eyebrow. "Another Auror?" 

"Yes. A Mr Remus Lupin, I believe you know him." 

Harry gave Dumbledore one of his rare half-smiles. "I may have met the fellow once or twice." 

"Splendid!" Harry suspected the headmaster was thrilled at managing to coax a smile out of him. "And you will not be without an Auror companion. You received my parchment on Perseus Hudson?" 

Harry nodded. "My contact." 

"Just so. Perseus will be delighted to have your company. It was a lonely time for him, as I recall, and a young wizard should be just the thing to brighten matters up for him." 

Harry had doubts about his ability to "brighten" up anyone's life, unless that person was particularly fond of torture and death, which were the only fortunes that ever seemed to visit his friends. He kept his doubts to himself, however, managing just another nod. 

"Now, if it isn't too much trouble, I have one last request." The headmaster's cheerful demeanour became stern as he continued. "I consider chronic loneliness to be just as inescapable a situation as being surrounded by a dozen dark wizards of Voldemort's calibre, and one worthy of a press of the button. Your mental health is just as important as your physical health." 

"I understand, sir," said Harry complacently, mentally scoffing at the thought of using the button for so trivial a purpose. He hadn't cracked yet and had no intention of doing so in the near future. 

"I somehow doubt that, Harry," sighed the headmaster. "I do wish you would consent to seeing a psychowizard. I know you dislike the thought of having your thoughts 'dissected and formed into neat piles for analysis,' I believe was how you described it, but you will need to unburden yourself someday." 

"Yes, sir," he said flatly. 

"Even simply a pensieve....oh, don't frown so, Harry. No-one is going to force you, least of all me. I just wish that you took better care of yourself." Dumbledore gave the closest thing he had to a helpless shrug and made a shooing gesture at the young Auror. "I won't hold you up any longer. Good luck, Harry." 

"Thank you, sir." He started out rather more hastily than he had arrived. 

"And if you don't really want a sherbet lemon," the headmaster called out from behind, "next time you may just say so. I will not be devastated, I promise." 

Harry paused mid-step, then continued out the door determinedly, mentally shaking his head at himself. It had been pretty foolish to assume he could deceive the headmaster. He doubted that Professor Dumbledore had even needed to use Occlumency. His long years of dealing with troublesome students had sharpened his perception to the point where Occlumency was superfluous. 

He strode quickly back to his room, thanking whatever merciful deity had chased the ghosts away for his return trip. Burying his doubts deep where they couldn't bother him, he picked up the ornate goblet of potion, swirling the contents and, in the universal warding ritual for unpleasant tastes, pinched his nose. Feeling something like a child, he held the rim to his lips and drank. 

Then he reeled, gagging. Had Snape poisoned the potion after all? He should have run tests before drinking, should have checked. Shouldn't have trusted the professor so implicitly. He should have--should have... 

The world started spinning in sync with his twisting stomach. It exploded in a rainbow of colour and faded to a black. Harry just remembered to grab hold of his trunk before he lost consciousness. 

-- -- -- -- --

  
Harry's transition back to consciousness was abrupt. Almost before his eyes were open, he found his wand and grasped it tightly. He sprang to his feet, immediately regretting his haste as the world jumped at, and then backed away from, him. He put a hand to his head, rubbing his temples. Then, with a practicality borne of several years as an Auror, he took stock of his surroundings. 

He was in a thickly wooded area, with no immediately evident civilisation. The undergrowth was untouched by human feet, and the cloudy sky was barely visible through the thick trunks and their branches. Harry tried to employ the use of his sensing ability, but it was still fairly new to him and too weak and inclined to desert him more often than not. Was he in the Forbidden Forest? The possibility disquieted him. 

He needed to apparate, somewhere near Diagon Alley so he could grab a paper and verify the date. He held his wand up and concentrated, closing his eyes. 

When he reopened them, he was right next to the brick wall that would take him into the wizarding establishment. Purposefully, he passed it and entered Diagon Alley with the impression that the layout and stores would likely be radically different than what he'd known from his many visits, but he was wrong. In fact, with the exception of the Quidditch shop, he could detect little variance. 

Not paying as sharp attention to the people around him as usual, he accidentally stumbled into a tall, scraggly man, who growled, "Watch where you're going!" 

There was a similar tension in the crowded streets. People studiously avoiding one another's eyes as they passed, careful not to see anything that might be dangerous seeing. One witch, balancing a collection of parcels, tripped on an uneven patch of road but no-one stopped to help her. Well, Harry amended as he stooped down to help her collect her purchases, Diagon Alley had not changed in appearance, but perhaps in spirit. The witch acknowledged his help with a mumbled thank-you and a wary smile that vanished almost as suddenly as it had appeared. 

Such a lack of unity. The marked absence might have affected Harry more a few years back, when Diagon Alley had still been a bustling place of street merchants shouting their advertisements and multitudes of children crowding around the window of the Quidditch shop admiring the newest broom model while their parents took care of their boring errands. But the Diagon Alley he'd left behind had been a sombre shade of its former glory, where everyone travelled in packs and no-one let a child wander alone. A place of short smiles and shorter tempers. Not so different either, then. He walked up to a young witch who was selling the latest edition of the Daily Prophet and quickly purchased a copy. 

_**Tragedy at Post-Quidditch Cup Celebration Leaves 21 Dead, 7 Injured** _

In a vicious attack carried out by unified dark wizards under the leadership of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald, the celebrations following the Quidditch Cup in France were cut short. The attack occurred late in the night, catching both Aurors and Ministry officials in charge of protections off guard. Twenty of the wizards killed actively opposed Grindelwald, whose rise to power began in 1931. Other casualties include officials from the French Ministry of Magic and neutral fans of Quidditch. 

Says one witness of the attack, "They appeared out of nowhere, they must have broken the anti-Apparation wards. I didn't even know there was an attack until I heard the screams. Awful screaming, the kind you know you can't ever forget." 

One Auror present during the attack comments, "This was one of the most organised attacks we have seen to date. It had obviously been planned weeks in advance and they knew precisely which protections to dismantle. This begs the question once more: just how deeply have our ranks been penetrated by dark wizards? Make no mistake, this attack would not have succeeded without inside help." 

When asked to make a statement about the attack, the French Minister assured the people of France as well as visiting Quidditch enthusiasts that Ministry officials are investigating the attack around the clock. 

This attack is just the most recent of many on the wizarding world. While not as deadly as the Groulesville attack of June, which caused many thousands of galleons worth of damage and resulted in the deaths of over forty-five people, the Quidditch attack is obviously aimed at striking at the... 

Harry put the paper down slowly, sickened. He had escaped nothing, and though escape had not been his goal, he almost felt betrayed. This was so similar to his own time and Voldemort's attacks, it was eerie. History repeating itself in reverse. He gripped his wand more tightly for reassurance. The last time he'd been caught without his wand.... 

He pressed his lips into a thin line and began walking purposefully toward Ollivander's. The wizard handling the sales was the very same man who had sold Harry his own wand so long ago. He didn't look a day younger, which raised the question of just how old Ollivander was. 

Ash. Eleven inches. Unicorn hair. Excellent for charms work, Ollivander assured him. The wizard seemed a bit put out when Harry had accepted the third wand he'd tried. Ollivander kept insisting that he could find a wand of much better fit. Half the fun of Ollivander's job, Harry suspected, was finding the right wand for the right wizard. Which would make him a bizarre sort of matchmaker. Harry smiled slightly. 

He had declined Ollivader's offer. After all, this was not the wand he would use against Grindelwald. This was only for Hogwarts--and the term began in less than a week, according to the date on that paper. Snape's potion had worked far better than he'd dared to hope for, though he should have known better. Even Sirius allowed that Snape was a genius in his field, though his phrasing hadn't been quite so complimentary. 

With his wand purchased, that left only lodging to worry about. Reminded now of his obligation to seek out Dumbledore's contact from the past, Harry pulled out a small slip of paper. Perseus Hudson. Committing both the name and address to memory, Harry hurried out of Diagon Alley. As soon as he was far enough away from any wizards or Muggles, he Apparated, arriving at a tidy, old house that looked like it could fit comfortably in the eighteenth century. 

He opened the gate and passed beneath a tall arch, experiencing the transparent feeling that usually accompanied a magical probe. This Perseus fellow was a cautious person, Harry thought approvingly. Something to be expected of an operative of Dumbledore's. 

He knocked at the door, just as the grey sky finally unburdened itself. Large raindrops pelted Harry, causing him to regret not bringing an umbrella. And between his trunk, wand, and knocking, he couldn't transfigure anything in the interim. Fortunately, it was only a few seconds before a middle-aged man opened the door, smiling broadly at Harry. 

"Stormy weather we've been having for this time of year," he said. The statement was punctuated by a bright flash of lightning. 

"Hopefully I'll be able to clear that up," replied Harry stoically, wanting to wrinkle his nose in distaste. Dumbledore was quite the amateur at inventing coded conversations. If a Death Eater initiate had been unable to tell the conversation was staged, Harry would have been surprised. Even Voldemort had standards. 

"We could use a good umbrella," Hudson added. 

Could we ever. His hair almost plastered to his head now, a remarkable indication of the downpour's intensity, Harry scowled. "Yes, yes. I have just the right umbrella for you." 

"Indeed? Will it be enough for this weather?" 

"Yes," Harry said, feeling the moisture begin to penetrate even his thick robes. "It's a wide umbrella of sturdy make." 

Hudson nodded sagely, not budging from the doorway. "What colour?" 

"What colour?" Harry repeated incredulously, blinking away some water that had run into his eyes. As far as he knew, the script had ended with his last statement. 

"I need to know the colour," the other man said firmly, and Harry was ready to swear that he was taking a sadistic pleasure in watching Harry be miserable in the rain. 

"Bloody pink with yellow stripes and a giant green boar on the very top," Harry growled, beginning to think that hopping into a lake might be drier than standing out in the rain, "are you _quite_ satisfied?" 

"This boar," Hudson said thoughtfully, "is it a very lar--" 

He didn't get any further, Harry tackled him to the floor, stood up, and closed the door behind him with a quiet, wounded dignity. He shook his head and his hair instantly settled in its normal messy style. A few drying charms later, and he looked almost human again, except for the great scowl on his face. Perseus Hudson picked himself up off the floor with an agility at odds with his apparent age. But then, he was only sixty-five. He only looked like he was a hundred. 

"Now what was that all about?" Harry demanded. 

"Consider it," Perseus Hudson said primly, "a test of character." 

"A test of patience, more like," Harry muttered, but most of his ill-humour left him. 

"Patience is just a facet of character," the older Auror said, gesturing to a seat. "Sit, please. Might I interest you in some tea?" 

Harry nodded, and sat in the offered plush chair. As he waited patiently, he planned and analysed and planned some more. When he arrived at Hogwarts, he would not be sorted with the first years. There was no need to draw undue attention to himself. But what house to try for? 

Hufflepuff. He smiled, but there was a bitter edge to it. That would be the part to play. The innocent Hufflepuff seventh year who possessed far more power than he did common sense. It wasn't as though he hadn't seen it before. And if he played well enough, Grindelwald's Hogwarts recruiters would be almost salivating. And how better to get close to Riddle than to be as unthreatening as possible? Just not boring. As though he could be, he thought wryly, even if he tried. 

That sorted, so to speak, he ploughed on. The year was 1944, that left a year to set in motion the events that would lead to Grindelwald's downfall. Naturally, he would have to start small in the Hogwarts circles and gradually work his way-- 

"Tell me, my boy: how is the old man?" 

Harry's fingers leapt to his wand. When he realised there was no immediate danger, he relaxed marginally, mentally berating himself for not paying attention to magical signatures. Hudson looked at him expectantly, reminding Harry that he was waiting for an answer. 

"He is well," he said. "In good health." 

"Good to hear, good to hear," the man said, absently stroking his dark beard, which was mottled with specks of grey here and there. "He told me all about what you are doing here, of course. And your name--Harry Potter, isn't it? You are to pose as my nephew." 

This was something Harry had not been informed of, but he supposed it made sense enough. "Oh?" 

"Yes. With a few small altercations to the shape of your face, you'll even look something like me. We'll have to change your eyes as well. Too unique, very powerful. An interesting shade, almost the same green as...hm." 

The man leaned forward, squinting at his eyes. Trying to ignore the scrutiny, Harry thought for a moment. "Mirror, please?" 

He studied his reflection carefully. His chin was a bit pointy; another inheritance from his mother, Remus said, one that had set him more apart from his father as his face had matured and thinned. Sirius commented every once and a while that it made Harry look almost elfin, especially with his "ridiculously giant-sized" eyes. He took the mirror away from his face to look at Perseus Hudson. 

"I'll square my chin some and lighten my hair, so it's closer to your hair's tint. As for eyes, brown should suffice. Unless--do you have a picture of my supposed parents?" 

"Ah, so our laconic Auror can manage more than a sentence," commented his host. "Yes, I do have a picture. Do your transfigurations, there will be time to fine tune it later." 

Harry ignored the jibe and raised the mirror to his face again. He waved his wand slowly, murmuring simple spells that would make him subtly different from the famous Harry Potter, using Transfiguration spells instead of illusion charms. He did not want to be revealed by poorly aimed Finite Incantatem. The ability to alter the body via Transfiguration was difficult to learn, but since he'd not yet worked on becoming an animagus, Harry had felt obligated to learn at least that much. Tonks, a rare Metamorphmagus, had been a great help in teaching him the few spells to alter facial features that those without her talent could manage. 

"There's a nice bit of magic. But can you do something about that?" Hudson pointed a finger at the lightning bolt-shaped scar on Harry's forehead. 

His hand almost went to his hair, in an instinctive move to smooth it over the scar. "It's difficult to disguise, even with the best of spells." 

"I have just the thing for you," declared Perseus, disappearing again into another room and returning with a bottle of a creamy substance. "My niece left this here last time she visited. She would use it to cover up blemishes. A sort of facial cream, enhanced with potions." 

Harry accepted the product dubiously, and he was halfway through checking for poisons and curses before he noticed the strange look Hudson was giving him. Keeping his face carefully blank to hide his embarrassment, he stopped and just smeared some on his forehead. The cream was delightfully cool, and effective, if the mirror was to be trusted. The scar was gone. Harry read the label on the bottle. 'Does not rub off. Lasts 48 hours.' 

Perseus surveyed him with a pleased expression before disappearing into another room, emerging shortly with a large framed picture of a beautiful young witch and her husband, their fingers intertwined as they followed a forest path. Occasionally, she would twirl away from him, laughing without care, dancing in dizzying swirls and leaps before being caught in an embrace from the wizard, who seemed afraid that she might be carried away by the lightness of her steps and the heavy breeze the shook the trees in the picture. 

"My sister, Andromeda. She hardly ever stands still," he said apologetically, handing the picture over to Harry. "Her eyes are more of a grey than mine, after our father. That's Curtis Williams, her estranged husband." 

"Former? Huh. Well, is she married again?" 

"Ah, no," Hudson said, giving Harry a strange look. Harry then remembered that wizards couldn't divorce, only separate. Though there was talk in his time of getting that changed, with the dwindling of the wizarding population of Britain. "We'll have to explain you as the result of that marriage. Since Andromeda has kept well away from Curtis since their separation, it will not be unexpected for her to have hidden your existence from him." 

"What happened?" Harry asked, curious in spite of himself. "I mean--I don't want to pry, by any means, but...?" 

Hudson smiled. "No, no. It's fine. Andromeda doesn't speak much about it, but she described him to me as too oppressive." 

"Oppressive?" Harry echoed, putting a subtle twist to the word. 

"It's an Auror thing, I expect, to look for a body where there is none," Hudson said with a shrug that took all sting out of his remark. "Goodness knows I have problems enough sticking my nose where it's unwanted. No. Curtis is a healer. Very skilled. He also is something of a Potions Master, but I understand that most healers have skill in that field. He hasn't a violent bone in him." 

Harry nodded, wondering if Madam Pomfrey brewed her own potions or had Snape do them. Probably the latter, he decided. "Isn't it slightly over the top, concealing his own child from him?" 

"No," Hudson said firmly. "Curtis could have contested custody and probably taken the child from her. They did not part on very good terms, and it seems something he might do, out of spite. From my observations, I find that Curtis feels perhaps too deeply, and tends to nurse his hurts, unfortunately. In fact, when you appear at Hogwarts, I should not be surprised if he were to try and visit you." 

"Hm," Harry said thoughtfully. "I will have to be more convincing, then. Do you or your sister have a pensieve I might look into. I am also a Legilimens, so if you don't, it won't be much of a problem." At Perseus Hudson's slightly concerned frown, Harry held up a hand. "I assure you, I would not intrude on anything you might wish to keep private. It's not mind-reading, like some people think. It is very similar to browsing through a pensieve, except with more work on my part involved, and perhaps not so active a participation in the memory." 

"Andromeda does indeed have a pensieve," he said. "It will take some time for me to get it from her. She'll give permission, naturally, so you needn't worry about that." 

"What about her? Does she know all about this...charade?" 

"Yes," Hudson said patiently. "Of course. It might help for her to meet you and learn something about you. Between the two of you, you can construct a thorough history. Perhaps over Christmas holiday." 

"That will be fine." The witch finally turned and looked out of the picture frame, and Harry froze the picture. By luck, Curtis Williams was also facing front. He made more minute altercations to his disguise, glancing between the mirror and the picture as he went about his transfigurative work. 

"Merlin, you look just like family," Hudson said with a grin. "It shouldn't be too difficult to pretend." 

"Hm," Harry said noncommitally. "Until I can have access to the pensieve, we'll have to make by with what you can tell me. Maybe reinforce it a bit with Legilimency?" 

At Hudson's suddenly ill expression, Harry relented with a sigh. "Or perhaps just talk. What do I need to know about you and my 'family,' sir?" 

"First thing you have to start to do is call me Uncle Perseus," said the man with a relieved smile, appearing to have already forgotten he had been needling his guest minutes earlier. "You are Harry Williams. A pity, really, that my sister did not retain her maiden name." 

"Could she have?" Harry asked. "I'm not always certain about wizarding customs." 

"Oh. Yes, after the separation, she could have chosen to use it. Before, too, I suppose, though that would be considered odd by modern standards." 

"I see. What is Andro--I mean, my mother's--profession?" 

"A quick study," Perseus said warmly. Harry had the impression that the man was thrilled to just have someone to talk to. He could certainly sympathise. "She owns a small shop in Diagon Alley, which specialises in rare book sales...." 

He spent the rest of that evening having the history of his new family drilled into his head. Perseus Hudson was friendly, but very firm that Harry not forget a single detail. After he had talked well into the night, he stopped suddenly with an apology for forgetting his duties as a host (and an uncle, he'd amended) and led Harry to a dark bedroom. Harry put up minor protective wards on the room and crawled straight into bed, not bothering to even change. Exhausted, he thought he would be able to sleep without dreams just this once. 

-- -- -- -- --

  
_ "You need to get out of here, Harry--now!" _

When he shook his head in an emphatic "no," she glared and started physically pushing him to the hidden doorway that would take him to safety. The door could only be opened and closed from the outside, however, and Ginny would have to remain to operate it. If Harry ever met the designer of the passageway...well, perhaps it could be written off as justifiable murder. 

"I'm not leaving you behind," he said, more than the smoke spilling through the crack between the door and the floor making his voice rough and harsh. "Don't be so quick to throw your life away. You're worth more than that." You're worth so much more than me, he wanted to say, but knew that to say so would only strengthen her resolve. 

But it was as if she had not heard a word. She kept pushing, with more strength than Harry would have expected from a person her size. The sounds of screams in the safe house drew closer. Harry knew that they had only a few minutes at most until Death Eaters were literally at their door. 

"It's you they're after, Harry," said Ginny. "After you escape, they'll probably leave everyone else alone." 

She was playing to his guilt, but he was guarded against that kind of attack. He'd anticipated something like this from her. "Sure, 'probably.' You know perfectly well that they will kill everyone anyway." 

"That's beside the point," she growled. "What's important is that they don't get you. Don't forget the prophecy!" 

His growing fear for the life of one of his last friends and frustration at his inability to do anything combined like reactive ingredients into an explosive fury. 

"Sod the bloody prophecy! Is my life worth more than all of these people's? Yours?" he grit between clenched teeth, struggling against Ginny's efforts. "So what if it's me that dies this time?" Maybe you're misinterpreting the prophecy, he thought privately, maybe all that will stop him is exactly that? 

"Oh, Harry," she sighed, the softening of her voice in no way paralleling a halt in her efforts. "If we could do this any other way that would allow us to save some lives, I would. Gladly, and you know it! But we don't have_ anything. We have no Portkeys, no fireplace, no floo for our nonexistent fireplace, and there's an anti-Apparation spell up. This is all we can do. And yes, it's worth it!" She choked on that. "Are you the only person who's allowed to care? Haven't I lost enough brothers?" _

At Harry's sudden flinch, she scowled. "I didn't mean it like that, you hopeless idiot. Stop taking the blame for everything! And this isn't the brave Order member Ginny giving her life to save the all-important saviour of our world. This is Ginny, saving one of her brothers, if only in spirit. Mum's all but adopted you as it is!" 

They both started at the shouts that were now almost outside the door of their room. Ginny finally let go of Harry, digging into her pockets. Harry stared at the door grimly, holding his wand in a fighting stance. Then he noticed the wand in Ginny's hand, which was pointed right at him. 

"Don't make me do this," she said quietly. "I will, if you don't go on your own." 

The yells were now almost deafening. The sound of boots coming to their door shook the floor, a stampede of death. The cloaked Death Eaters howled in victory. The walls shivered as the various protection spells withstood the first assault of curses. 

"Please, Ginny," he whispered finally, hopelessly. "Don't you die too." 

"Don't be silly, Harry! Everyone dies someday." She smiled with forced bravado that made his heart clench in his chest. "You can't change that." 

"Ginny--" 

"Harry, you are my best friend. I'm not doing this for the good of the wizarding world. I'm doing this for you, Harry, not for anyone else. And I'll ask you one more time: will you go willingly?" 

He stared at her, trying to trap her gaze and use the ultimate of dirty tricks: Legilimency. But she knew better and didn't make eye contact. "Ginny, don't--you can't--!" 

The glowing protections around the room, though erected by Harry, who was very skilled at protective shields, pulsed and fell under the Death Eaters' relentless barrage of curses. Now it was a matter of seconds. 

"I'm sorry, Harry," Ginny said quietly, looking at him with something like compassion. "Stupefy!" 

The situation was so like a nightmare, Harry half expected that the blackness taking over his vision would be him waking up, returning to reality. He could feel Ginny drag him through the doorway into the passage. She closed it and the click of the permanent lock cut right at his heart. The last thing he was aware of was her raised voice shouting out a curse. Then, nothing. Again. 

-- -- -- -- --

  
Harry smiled widely at Headmaster Dippet, slipping into his role of good-natured-if-a-bit-simple wizard as easily as most people slipped into clothing. The headmaster took out a battered hat and placed in gently on his head and stepped back to wait. 

_How unusual! Sorting a student before the Sorting?_ The hat's thoughts were louder than Harry remembered. 

_The burning is upon us,_ he thought back. _We must gather the ashes._

_Oh._ The hat sounded disappointed upon hearing the code. In an almost whining tone, it asked, _Are you sure? Hmph. Well, fine then. What do you need?_

_I need to be placed in Hufflepuff,_ he told it. At least Dumbledore's cryptic sentence had worked. There could be no man fonder of being vague than the old headmaster. 

_Hufflepuff?_ The hat gave its equivalent of a surprised blink. Then it chortled. _The wolf among the sheep! Definite Slytherin material, in my opinion, or at the very least, Gryffindor. Are you sure about this, dear?_

Harry did not answer. The hat sighed and muttered the selection sullenly. At Harry's mental prod, it shouted out the house choice. Somewhat startled by the vehemence in the hat's voice, Professor Dippet took it gingerly from Harry's head. He remembered himself and gave the headmaster a sheepish grin and a shrug. 

"I suppose that's it." 

"Yes. Thank you, Mr Williams," said Dippet. "You may join your house now. The actual Sorting will begin in a few minutes." 

Harry nodded like this was a new piece of information and left the office, which seemed oddly empty without Dumbledore's various odd artefacts, though the many portraits still adorned the walls. It was strange, he reflected, how much larger Dumbledore's strange decorations made the room seem. 

When he joined his table, the other students of his year were only marginally interested in him, except for one or two girls that batted their eyelashes at him none too subtly. He answered their questions distantly, the hardest of which to answer was "So why'd you decide to come to Hogwarts?" He spent the feast smiling and nodding when someone said something in his direction. He was more interested in the students from the other houses. Particularly Slytherin and Ravenclaw. 

He spotted Riddle quickly, almost instinctually. The charismatic wizard was tall, which caused him to stand out from his housemates. Harry estimated that he was a little more than a two or three centimetres taller than himself, which set the boy's height at slightly less than two metres. Harry then swept his gaze over the other Slytherins, searching for slight differences in their magical signatures that could hint at dark magic, or more specifically, connections with Grindelwald. He gave the Ravenclaws the same treatment, since from past experience he'd found Ravenclaws just as likely as their cunning cousins to go to the dark side in their pursuits of knowledge. 

"...do you have?" 

"Er," said Harry, startled out of his evaluations. "Sorry. What was that again?" 

The speaker was a curly-haired redhead that reminded Harry so much of Ginny for a brief moment, he almost felt a stirring of grief. Cool logic whipped the unruly emotion back into place. Smiling so widely he wondered if it were possible to pull a facial muscle, he waited for her reply. 

"I wanted to know what classes you are taking," she said, smiling back under pale blue eyes. 

Harry sighed inwardly, relieved. Ginny's eyes had not been blue. And why was he letting this girl get to him? Without the red hair, she looked nothing like Ginny. 

"Oh, the usual ones. Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, and Defence and Potions..." He glanced over the schedule on his lap. "And....Understanding the Dark Arts?" 

"You are taking UDA, too?" she asked, pronouncing the word 'you-duh.' 

Wondering what a class with that kind of name was doing at Hogwarts, of all places, he made some vague reply. 

"Professor Grimm is brilliant," she continued enthusiastically. "He's creepy sometimes, but he knows his dark magic!" 

_Dark_ magic? He felt a sort of protective possessiveness at that. Not at _his_ Hogwarts. What was the headmaster thinking, exposing the upper level students to the Dark Arts? Making a mental note to check up on this Professor Grimm, Harry left the feast with the rest of the Seventh Years. He settled into his new poster bed, squelching nostalgic feelings for the second time that night and massaging his face tenderly. If he had to beam so much every day, he was going to strain something. Immediately, he reprimanded himself. 

_You are a Hufflepuff, Potter,_ he told himself. _Not a grinning, drooling idiot. You are twenty-three years old and a little acting won't kill you. Don't equate Hufflepuff with stupid unless you want to be as bigoted as those foolish pureblood wizards who think that all Muggleborns are incompetent. You should know better, the way you go on and on about overcoming house prejudices._

"G'night everyone," said one boy. Once again Harry was struck by the friendliness every Hufflepuff he'd met so far displayed. Then, almost stricken at forgetting the new student, the boy added, "Night, Harry. Glad to have you here." 

Harry grunted in reply and snuggled deeper into his covers, luxuriating in the safety he felt by simply being back at Hogwarts. 

-- -- -- -- --

  


**Revised 3.7.04**


	2. Every Shape and Shade

**Title: **Extrapolation

**Rating:** PG-13, R in later chapters; ratings for language, violence, death, implied rape.   
**Genre:** Action/Adventure, Drama, Angst   
**Summary:** Harry Potter travels back to the year 1944 to help the Dumbledore of that time defeat the Dark Lord Grindelwald. But there's a catch: only a select number of people can know that he's from the future--and Dumbledore's not one of them. And Grindelwald isn't the only thing Harry has to worry about. An old enemy is helping his new enemy...a Hogwarts student by the name of Tom Riddle. How far will Harry go to see Grindelwald dead? And will he learn to let his own dark past lie?   
**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and affiliated characters and concepts all belong to J.K. Rowling. I make no profit spinning my yarns, aside from the enjoyment playing around in her world brings.   
_Note on italicised segments:_ These are flashback sequences and internal dialogue (thoughts).

-- -- -- -- --

**EXTRAPOLATION**   
**_Chapter Two: Every Shape and Shade_**

-- -- -- -- --

Professor Dumbledore did not like Professor Grimm. It wasn't easy to spot, because Dumbledore was nothing if not diplomatic. But Harry had been raised by the Dursleys, and was therefore well-versed in the subtlest of body language, picking the knack up in a form of self-defence, so he wasn't oblivious like the other students. And Legilimency helped for those finer emotions that might slip past otherwise unnoticed. But he didn't need Legilimency to notice the barely perceptible hardening of Dumbledore's eyes and the underlying cool in his voice when he spoke to the sinister, somewhat oily professor.

The Understanding the Dark Arts professor was a dark wizard. He couldn't be anything but that, the way he pushed the class to learn every bit of dark magic he could fit in the curriculum. From the name of the class, you mightn't guess that the entire curriculum was geared toward cramming every loathsome curse and dark spell in existence into the students' repertoire of spells. The name was very innocent, hinting that the students were learning just how dangerous dark magic could be. Probably the professor found that very amusing, he thought sourly.

It was wrong. He looked forward to every class with a sickly fascinated anticipation, curious to see how the professor might further corrupt his students _this_ lesson. Because even if they, innocent despite the war with Grindelwald, didn't realise what the class was doing to them, Harry did. All too well. And he could still recall the conversation he had shared with the headmaster, years in the future, about the dangers of such magic.

It had been a frustrating time for him. Even then, he had been poring through endless tomes, intent on discovering the key to Voldemort's demise. And in his search, he'd come across many spells, labelled "dark," that seemed promising...except for the fact that the headmaster had extracted the promise from Harry not to attempt any dark spells he might come across in his research. In exchange, he was allowed to peruse the Restricted Section to his heart's content.

_"But why is it so bad to cast dark magic?" he blurted to the headmaster one day in his office, finally asking the question that had been bothering him for weeks. "There are plenty of ways to use it to do good, just like you can do bad things with normal magic. Like get rid of Voldemort. I've found so many spells that just might..." he broke off in frustration. "It looks like it's all we've got. So how can it be wrong?"_

_Dumbledore was silent for a long time. When he spoke, it was carefully. "Practising the Dark Arts isn't exactly like casting a normal spell. There have been many arguments over the years over whether or not magic is 'alive.' If it is, then dark magic can certainly be classified as aggressive."_

_That gave Harry pause. "Aggressive? How can magic be aggressive?"_

_"Dark magic pushes at light magic. You've learnt about magical theory in Charms, that magic is always in you, infused in your body. There is a Muggle saying, "you are what you eat." It is much the same with magic. The spells you cast determine what magic you have in you and can draw from. The dark spells you cast slowly replace your normal magic, like a weed will choke a garden because it is more aggressive and more hungry to live. It happens subtly, so subtly that you hardly ever realise what has happened before you are too far gone to save yourself." He paused and considered Harry. "Better to never start using dark magic at all."_

_"Fine. Great. I'll keep that mind, what with my having such broad options for defeating Voldemort," Harry said with faint sarcasm. "But what is it about dark magic that makes it evil? I don't understand. There are plenty of curses and hexes that aren't in the Restricted Section, so I guess they must be all right, except that they hurt people. How do I know if any of them are Dark Arts?"_

_"To best protect yourself from unknowingly casting a dark spell, you must understand that something is not proclaimed evil simply because it causes pain."_

_Harry shook his head, perplexed. "But--"_

_"I see you are confused." The headmaster smiled apologetically. "I grow cryptic in my old age, forgive me, please. Madame Pomfrey gave you a potion during your second year, Skele-Gro. Did it hurt you?"_

_"Well, yes." And how! His arm twinged slightly, as though remembering the tingling pain._

_"Is it, then, evil?"_

_"Er, no. I don't think so." Harry stopped and frowned thoughtfully. "All right. So magic can't be classified by its potential to hurt."_

_Dumbledore nodded. "There is some black magic that causes no pain at all. Love spells, illusion charms, even truth spells. Why are these spells dark?"_

_"Why are they dangerous?" Harry paraphrased, chewing his lip._

_"Not 'dangerous,'" corrected Dumbledore. "No, I said 'dark,' not 'dangerous.' Some healing spells are very dangerous, but they are not evil."_

_"But..." Harry fidgeted, trying not to look utterly lost. "Imperius. It doesn't cause pain, it might be helpful, it is dangerous, and it is an evil spell. How do we decide whether a spell is bad or not?"_

_"To classify a spell, you must look not at its effects on the target, but at how it affects the caster. How it affects your magical core."_

_"We're back to magical cores again?" Harry wondered if, perhaps, it was not too late to gracefully back out of the conversation and return to bed. The serious look on Dumbledore's face answered his wistful question._

_"I see that Professor Flitwick is in need of revising his syllabus slightly," Dumbledore muttered lowly to himself. Then he resumed his focus on Harry, employing the hated method of answering a question with another question. "How do you feel when you cast...say, a levitation charm?"_

_"Fine. Normal." At the headmaster's expectant look, Harry expanded. "Happy, I suppose. Happy knowing I can do something like that. Cast a spell, I mean. I mean...well, it's not even that. I guess it doesn't make me feel anything, really. If I'm miserable when I cast a spell, I'm still going to feel miserable. Unless I just cast a Cheering Charm, I suppose..."_

_The headmaster forestalled his rambling with a raised hand. Harry snapped his mouth shut. "Very well." Then Dumbledore said something that Harry never in his wildest imaginings thought he would hear the headmaster say. "Cast a black spell."_

_Harry gaped at his mentor for a full ten seconds. He blinked twice and followed orders, casting the mildest curse he could remember that was classified as "dark" in one of his books. He concentrated on how it made him feel, and since he was looking, he was able to detect it. With a surprised gape, he looked up at Dumbledore._

_"It was so small, but--it made me feel good. Not happy, it was something different than that. It was almost--" He hesitated. "I'm not sure how to describe it."_

_"Do you have any ideas now, Harry?"_

_"Does it..." He stopped, marshalling his thoughts. "So we call it dark magic because it makes us feel good? No, wait, that's not all of it. Because it changes how you feel? Normal spells don't do that, I guess, so it's pretty manipulative. Because it makes you want to cast it more? Because it feels better than casting normal spells?"_

_"You are beginning to comprehend, I believe, but the matter is not so simple. You are right that at the heart, it is because of how it manipulates your emotions and makes you that much more likely to cast one again. The pull of evil magic is different for each wizard, of course, because no wizard's magical core is the same. Some wizards feel a very strong attraction to it." Noticing Harry's sudden stillness, the headmaster hastened to add, "This has nothing to do with the moral fibre of the wizard. Imagine that a person's potential is a magnet, if that will make it easier. The more powerful the magnet, the greater it will attract things--especially dark magic."_

_"So...um," Harry said, looking both hopeful and vaguely disquieted, "you, too?" _

_Professor Dumbledore nodded, and Harry felt something inside of him relax. The headmaster was the greatest advocate of light magic possibly ever. "This is why I do not condone the use of dark magic, for any purposes." There was the tiniest hint of disapproval in the old wizard's voice. "Laws are written to uphold peace, but why the Ministry legalised the use of black magic for Aurors, I will never understand. The cost of defeating our enemy may be one too heavy to be borne."_

_"But if that's true, why aren't there more evil wizards? There must be many people, including, I guess, plenty of Aurors, who use black magic often, so why aren't they all running around trying to take over the world?" Harry asked, trying very hard to keep his sarcasm at a minimum._

_"What it finally comes down to, Harry, is the person. Is the pull strong enough? Are the spells cast frequently enough? Is the person weak enough or tired enough or angry enough? Dark magic doesn't make you evil. It can't. It doesn't rob you of your free will, but it can weaken it. And who can say what a person is capable of if his inhibitions are close to nothing? If he will do anything to feel that thrill?"_

What does he mean, "who can say?" Just look at what Voldemort's doing right now! _That's_ what happens._ But Harry kept silent. He watched Fawkes preen and tried to handle a sudden flood of doubts and fears. What about him? He was a Gryffindor, yes, but he knew enough of defeat to know that that didn't make him infallible. What if he became like Voldemort some day? He could not imagine a worse fate. What a life that would be, to hate and never be satisfied with anything less than absolute victory and absolute power and control._

_"Voldemort will try to trap you," warned Dumbledore, guessing at his thoughts. "To use your hatred and force you to use dark spells against him, the more powerful the better. It would please him to see you give in to it. Never let yourself do that." Dumbledore took both of Harry's hands in his, and locked gazes with the him. His eyes didn't so much as twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles, dark and heavy instead with earnest concern. "The moment you give in, you give in to him. You will lose. All of us will lose."_

_"I'll...I'll do my best," Harry said with a feeble smile._

_"That is all I would ever wish to ask for. Here, take a candy." The headmaster pressed a sherbet lemon into Harry's hand._

_Harry studied it curiously for a moment before curling a fist around it, thinking about how surreal a world it was where old men handed out candy to cover the bitter aftertaste left by talks of power, hatred, and evil. But then he realised that perhaps there just wasn't comfort to be had for certain things and this was all the headmaster could give him. It wasn't enough, maybe, but they would get by somehow._

_"Thanks," he said softly._

"Welcome, students! Welcome," said Professor Grimm, startling Harry out of his reminiscing. "Today we shall be looking at spells you have only heard about in Defence. Your Defence professor no doubt wishes only to protect you from the evils of these spells. My duty, alas, is to help you understand this magic so you can better protect yourselves."

Alas indeed, Harry thought. Noting the intrigued expressions on the faces of his classmates, he felt like sighing in anger or perhaps resignation. Professor Grimm was increasing his hold over his students more with each passing week. Feeding the hunger, courting them all. Harry had a good idea what spells Grimm was speaking of, and an icy sliver of dread slithered down his spine. He couldn't cast these spells. _Couldn't_. The last time....

"Today, we shall be learning about the Unforgivable Curses." Harry closed his eyes in a shuddering despair. "Can anyone tell me what these spells do? I will give a small hint. There are three of them." The professor winked and Harry's stomach turned.

Harry kept his hands tightly at his sides, determined not to let his agitation show. In the two months he'd been a Hufflepuff student at Hogwarts, he had played his part to near perfection. His greatest mistake had simply been volunteering knowledge on a complicated defence spell in Dumbledore's class, being slightly out of sorts that day. He would not let some simple--he winced to even think of the Unforgivables as _simple_--fear jeopardise everything.

No-one raised his hand. Not disappointed in the least, in fact, seeming to relish the power of holding knowledge the students didn't possess, Professor Grimm launched into the full gory history of the Killing Curse, the Imperius Curse, and the Cruciatus Curse. Harry listened to the lecture, his face carefully blank with anger he did not dare show. He was so concentrated on showing no emotion that he did not hear the professor speak to him.

"Mr Williams?"

Harry shook his head, trying to catch up with reality. "Yes, professor?"

"Ever the inattentive pupil!" said the professor jovially, his hard eyes belying his kindly voice. "I asked if you would care to try casting the Imperius Curse for the class."

Harry's smile froze on his face. Of all the times to be chosen as a volunteer...! Haltingly, he spoke. "I--that is--I didn't hear what the incantation is, professor. Sorry, sir."

The man chuckled good-naturedly, so full of false cheer that Harry coolly indulged himself in imagining what the man would sound like bound in an interrogation room, acid dripping into an open wound as a questioning Auror forced a confession, word by dragged-out word in the absence of a ready supply of Veritaserum, even applying a low-power Cruciatus if physical torture wasn't sufficient. In the future, moral scruples had been an early casualty of war. Then he felt a wave of self-revulsion so strong his stomach clenched. It was starting already. He could not think without darkness creeping into his thoughts.

"Fittingly enough, the incantation is 'Imperio,' Harry." Harry nodded (painfully) with scholarly (false) interest and the professor demonstrated wand movements that ironically, Harry tried to forget every day and relived every night. "Try it on this rat. Don't be worried if you can't get the spell right the first time. It takes practise."

He looked at the rodent helplessly, unable to come up with a protest. It did look a good deal like Wormtail.... He bit back a flash of anger provoked by memories of the traitor and all he had done. Harnessing the emotion, he was able to perform the curse without trembling. He instructed the rodent to dance, forcing back a memory of the false Moody doing something similar to the spider that day so long ago. Harry shuddered at the tingly bliss that coursed through him, a response he could not help but enjoy no matter how much he feared and loathed it. He watched the dancing rat bleakly, making a half-hearted attempt at Occlumency. It helped, sometimes.

"Wh--Why, well done, Mr Williams. Well done." The professor was suitably startled, but looked at Harry with a new glint that he didn't like. "Ten points to Hufflepuff."

After shaking his head almost imperceptibly with wonder, the professor instructed the rest of the class to practise Imperius. In retrospect, Harry supposed he would have been able to survive the class relatively unscathed, if trembly for a few hours afterward, had they only been required to learn that one spell, but his ill luck held. They were forced to learn all three for, the professor claimed, their own defence. The only small blessing was that he had not been asked to demonstrate the other two, though the professor had looked tempted to call upon him to do just that. Even so, he cast both of the other Unforgivables correctly on his first try, just so he wouldn't have to do so again, secrecy be damned.

It was an eternity later that he finally left the classroom now full of dead and twitching and vacant-eyed, slack-jawed rats; he kept his bearing straight until he reached the nearest toilet. He barely made it to the first stall before his threw up everything that was in him. When he was finished, he felt hollow and empty, like he'd just come out of a fight with dementors.

Trembling, he cleaned himself up. _No need to be ashamed,_ he told himself, trying unsuccessfully to reassure himself. His shaking hands paused a moment where his scar should have been and he met his grey eyes in mirror for a moment before sweeping his gaze downward, not liking what he saw there. Echoes of emotions from times long past. Fear. Hatred. Pain and loss. _They weren't people. This time, they weren't people._ He looked back at his reflection, and his eyes seemed unnaturally shadowed and cold in their slate grey, coolly disbelieving. At least when they were green, they held the illusion of life. Green was the colour of life. And Avada Kedavra. Death. That too.

He fled the bathroom and its too honest mirrors and was halfway to the Gryffindor common room before he realised his mistake. The class had left him very rattled. He only hoped that Dumbledore found out about Grimm teaching the Unforgivables and put a stop to the lessons, even if it was too late for him. Dippet, of course, was useless. He didn't even need the diary-Riddle's impression of the current headmaster to realise that.

Finally alone, sitting on his bed, Harry rubbed his temples. He could feel a headache brewing behind his eyes. This was one detail that Dumbledore had not mentioned, that one day so long ago. The headaches that affected particularly powerful wizards who did seldom used dark magic. It would worsen with every hour he restrained himself from casting a dark spell. He was familiar enough with the process. _Please let it be over soon_, he pled silently to the nearest wall. The pain, the memories, the faintly throbbing hunger that stirred at the slightest negative emotion. The wall just stared sullenly back, as bereft of solutions as him.

**-- -- -- -- --**

Hermione had always liked to believe that you could find any answer in a book, and therefore, by extension, in a library, which contained multitudes of them. Harry had lived long enough to know better. The key to solving your problems wasn't having countless resources. At a certain point, it was more disadvantageous to have so many. The key, Harry had learned, was knowing where to look. And, he brooded, he was certainly making no headway in the library.

The first weeks of school had been as frenzied and busy as he remembered them being during his days at Hogwarts. Thrust back into a place so full of memories without any chance to properly steel himself, Harry had spent those early days stuck in his past, remembering times not so long ago. Not easier times, but happier times. Yes, certainly happier. Hogwarts was so many things to him, many firsts: first home, first family, first refuge. Last refuge.

Repeating his seventh year had been unexpectedly taxing thus far. Harry wanted to be as attractive a prospective Grindelwald recruit as possible, so he needed to be a bit showy with his magic. But neither could he appear too skilled and certainly not too knowledgeable: that would raise many questions and more suspicions. He was supposed to be powerful but _clueless_. Naive. The trick was finding a balance and holding steadfastly to it. He was careful never to get a new spell right on his first go, but he made a show of learning it quickly.

So far, it felt like performing for an audience of empty seats. For all his efforts, no-one was snapping at the bait. Two months into the school year, he was exactly where he had started: completely and utterly without contacts to Grindelwald's Hogwarts circles. Worse, he couldn't even poke around for information without appearing at odds with his meticulously constructed Hufflepuff good-boy persona.

Harry sighed and opened another book, one on translation charms, to look up a few facts for his Charms essay. One thing an Auror wouldn't expect to have to do on a mission was homework, he thought wryly, and yet here he was.

"Williams, isn't it?"

Startled enough to nearly upset his ink bottle, Harry jumped in his chair. He inwardly railed at himself, suppressing the urge to draw his wand and meet the unexpected threat. His months at Hogwarts were making him lax, although he honestly hadn't expected to be confronted in the library, of all places.

He didn't even have to use his improving Sense to ascertain the identity of the student addressing him. He had heard that voice in nightmares; real ones as well as the nightly tortures that visited his dreams almost without fail. Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"That would be me," he said with as much friendliness as he could muster. He looked up into green eyes not as bright as his own. They were greyer, but they held the same shadowed look his own did, brought about by the heavy burden of knowledge and responsibility at a young age. Colder, too. Sharper with an ambition Harry didn't possess himself. Similar, but different enough that he could breathe an inner sigh of relief. He was no Riddle yet. "I am afraid you have the advantage."

"Tom Riddle. Slytherin." The mention of his house, added as a condescending afterthought, suggested that Riddle gave Hufflepuffs little credit for intelligence. He observed Harry with the detached interest of a farmer measuring a cow he might like to purchase. "I never had the opportunity to greet you properly. It is my duty as Head Boy to greet new students and make them feel welcome. I apologise for not introducing myself earlier."

Harry suspected he would never have been "introduced" at all were it not for that display in Understanding the Dark Arts. He certainly didn't enjoy being in the same room as a future enemy, but oddly, other than that, he felt no anger. No hate. Perhaps Riddle's mistake in underestimating any potential friends or enemies alleviated his fears somewhat, for that was an error Lord Voldemort would never make. He supposed that given time, this younger Voldemort would earn his loathing.

"Don't apologise," Harry said, feeling an urge to say something rather awkward to the student like 'So...in thirty years, you will be more feared than Grindelwald. I myself will not have been born. Could you explain your current ambitions so I can understand the future you and work at not making the same mistakes? By the way, I'll defeat you several times over the years, each time temporarily, and I would like to kill you very, very much. Any insights into how you might be offed permanently?'

"Pleased to meet you," he said instead, shaking the Slytherin's hand without recoiling. It was cool and dry, like touching a snake. A sign of practising dark magic? No, he was starting to see hidden meanings in everything. As Perseus put it, 'looking for the body where there is none.' "Is there anything else you need?"

Instantly, he reprimanded himself. He was finally seeing some progress, establishing his first contact, and here he was, letting himself be rattled and forget the very reason he came to Hogwarts in the first place: to infiltrate Grindelwald's ranks--something that would not be accomplished by pushing away the most talented student of the dark arts at the school and almost certainly an associate of Grindelwald's. Fortunately, Riddle chose to ignore his borderline rude question.

"I wished only to tell you about a study group I've founded. We review spells that have been introduced in earlier years and study the ones that haven't. Perhaps you've thought of joining such a club?"

The offer of membership was so smoothly delivered that Harry had to give Riddle credit, much as one would commend a cat for its stealth. Or a Slytherin for his cunning. He had little doubt that this "study group" was only true to its name superficially. It was a nice, innocent euphemism. But like almost everything Harry was used to, you only needed to scratch at the thin layer of gilt to find a whole lot of ugliness underneath.

"A study group, you say?" said Harry, not feigning his interest as he weighed the advantages and disadvantages of joining. Too early to play hard to get, he decided.

The flicker of triumph in the Slytherin's eyes confirmed his suspicions. Grimm had set Riddle on Harry, sensing a gullible student who would be easily fooled to join his shadier wizard brethren. Good to see some of his plans coming together at last. But it wouldn't be very advantageous to let Riddle think him so easily won. Harry wanted to generate interest; he would not advance or learn anything as a clueless minion.

"Is there much study in defensive magic?" he asked, making a quick decision that he hoped he would not regret.

"Defence spells? Like shields?" Tom Riddle seemed to really look at Harry this time. "You have some skill in that area?"

"Yes," answered Harry innocently. Honestly, too. In fact, to say he had "some skill" in defence shields was like saying Voldemort was "a trifle dangerous," or Dumbledore, "slightly batty."

"We might find the time, if you come to a meeting. There is one on Tuesday night, at ten o'clock here in the library."

Relaxing slightly, Harry decided to try one more thing. Concentrating on his magical aura, he puffed it up a bit, just enough that a person not skilled in Sensing would be able to detect a whisper of his magic. The small trick made Riddle take a half step forward in surprise. Harry feigned confusion, catching his last chance to meet his enemy's eyes. They were sharpened with interest and something deeper. He flailed a moment trying to figure it out before he realised what it was and abruptly broke eye contact. That hunger for power. For one terrifying second he had seen Lord Voldemort staring back at him.

"I'll see if I can make it," said Harry, shakily banishing the image.

Tom Riddle nodded with satisfaction and walked away, calling out over his shoulder, "Be there."

Though the command was nearly a threat, Harry barely took notice. He stared into nothing, trying not to remember a set of red eyes and the smell of death and the cold, clammy taste of pain and fear and the sound of hopeless misery.

**-- -- -- -- --**

_Small flecks of white floated and swirled outside the window, falling gently on the already thick carpet of snow. In the stillness of his room, Harry imagined that he could hear the flakes land with the quiet padding of cat feet on the ground. He would have liked to watch them longer, but cold was leaking through the warming charm in his room. He wasn't sure why; there were no drafts he could find. Perhaps it was some little aspect of the house's personality, to drive loners to the main room, which had a giant fireplace._

_But years of fighting had made him a stubborn person. He reinforced the charm, and forced his eyes from the swirling mass outside. Instead, he focused inward, remembering another time and another place. The snow had fallen the same, but there had been more warmth and far less loneliness._

_"No two snowflakes are the same, you know."_

_Ron rolled his eyes, tracing the path of one such speck down the window with his wand. Harry smiled, half at Hermione's need to have a relevant piece of information for everything, and half at Ron's exasperation. Hermione did not understand that some things didn't need an explanation to be enjoyed._

_"Wizards do know about more than just magic, Hermione," muttered Ron._

_That bought a decent moment of silence as they just sat by the window, so close their noses almost pressed against the glass. Harry sat contently, enjoying the odd sensation of feeling coldness on the front side of his body and a pleasant heat on his back, which was warmed by the fireplace._

_"I can't believe Dumbledore let us do this," he said, recalling with a wince the many restrictions placed on his two friends and him throughout the year._

_"Neither can I." Hermione sounded both scandalised and grateful. "My parents don't have the same kind of protection a wizarding family might. I know that Voldemort's been quiet this year, but still--"_

_"Yeah, but who'd think Dumbledore daft enough to send us somewhere like this, eh? Reckon it's the last place You Know Who would look."_

_Hermione nudged Ron. "Are you saying that this idea is stupid?"_

_"Er--" Wisely, Ron said nothing to incriminate himself._

_"That's what I thought," said Hermione smugly. "Besides, it will be good for you to see how a Muggle family celebrates Christmas. You might learn something."_

_"I doubt learning something is what Ron had in mind when he decided to come," Harry pointed out, finally discomfited enough to turn around so he could warm up his face and stomach and give his roasting back a well deserved break._

_"There, see? Harry understands. Don't you, mate? Holiday is for relaxing and having fun. Not, like some people think," his pointed look making perfectly clear just who 'some people' were; that is, Hermione, "time to add a few extra rolls of parchment to boring old history essays."_

_"I have to admit, it's nice to have something to take our minds off Voldemort," Harry said._

_Ron and Hermione exchanged glances, well aware that "our minds" really meant "my mind." Harry ignored the looks, watching the flames crackle and flare. The room was so cosy and full of holiday cheer that if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that he was with his own parents, magically alive again, in Godric's Hollow celebrating Christmas Eve. But it was getting harder to imagine with each passing year, having no memories of what a real Christmas with real family was like to compare his fantasies to. He didn't even really miss his parents. He never truly knew them. It was the concept of having parents that he missed._

_"I wonder if there's some spell that could make the flakes look bigger. Y'know, to let you see their shapes," Ron said suddenly. "Make sure that Miss Know-It-All Hermione isn't having us on."_

_Harry did not need to turn around to know that Hermione had a wide smile on her face. "As it happens, yes, actually. There is. It's called a magnifying charm, Ron. A variation of it anyway, meant to be used on glass. I think I know the incantation, but I may have the pronunciation a bit wrong," she said modestly, fooling neither of her best friends._

_Harry stole a glance at Ron. From the remorseful expression on his face, Harry guessed that the question had been meant to break the silence, and his friend had probably not expected an answer. He rotated back to his original position to watch Hermione, who tapped the window with her wand and spoke a phrase._

_The snowflakes were suddenly as large as his fist and moved at a fraction of their previous speed. He reached out to touch the glass, amazed and knowing he shouldn't really be. This was Hermione, after all. If there was a spell out there to make a good thing better, she invariably knew it._

_Ron sniggered, breaking the appreciative silence. "Hah! Look at that one! It looks like Snape's nose! Ugly thing..."_

_Harry leaned forward. "Where?"_

_"There, don't you see?" He pointed. "The left one."_

_"It does not," said Hermione primly. "Does Snape's nose have six points?"_

_"If as many people as wanted to took a swing at him, I reckon it might," said Ron, not the least put off. "What do you say, Harry?"_

_"Well..." He considered a moment. "Not quite. Although maybe if you had six of them arranged in that shape..."_

_"Urgh. Let's leave it at that. Even one Snape nose is one too many," said Ron disgustedly._

_"What about that one?" Harry pointed to one odd, half melted shape._

_"My dear boy! Oh, my poor boy," Ron gasped, clutching his chest. "The grim! It is the grim!"_

_Harry screeched in mock terror, but his laughter made it more of a warbled squawk that made Ron double over in hysterics. "What does it mean, professor? Could it mean..."_

_"Yes. Alas! The grim brings death! Horrible black death. Painful death. Tragic death--Oh, my dear boy," Ron wailed theatrically after recovering himself, "I fear you shall not live out the year!"_

_"You really shouldn't make fun of teachers," interrupted Hermione, but she didn't sound very disapproving, and she was even smiling a little._

_"What! You're defending that old bat?" Ron rolled his eyes. "I knew it. The girl is nutters..."_

_"I am not defending her, it's just--ooh! Never mind, Ronald Weasley! Respect is something you'll never understand and consequently, never have."_

_"This from the girl who yelled at poor, kindly Professor Sprout?" teased Harry. "What was that about, anyway? Didn't she assign a long enough Herbology midterm?"_

_Cheeks reddening from something other than the fire's heat, Hermione glared at him. "Oh, you! Stay out of this if you think you know what's good for you!"_

_"What? You mean I get to decide what's good for me, this once?" said Harry, unable to keep from sounding as sour as he felt._

_Once more, his friends shared looks over his head. "It could be worse, Harry," Hermione said finally._

_"Really," he said sarcastically. "How?"_

_"Well, look at it this way....Ron could be the one deciding," Hermione said, covering her mouth in an unsuccessful bid to smother a laugh._

_He managed to keep a straight face until an ill-timed glance at Ron's outraged face broke him. He burst into laughter, feeling his moodier emotions slipping away. What mattered now was what he had in front of him. His friends. This house. The snow. Christmas. _

_He couldn't recall having a better Christmas. It was a strange phenomenon: every Christmas outshone the last. Hogwarts and its beautiful decorations and food simply couldn't compete with holidays in a real house where there weren't great empty spaces and the place actually felt full. It couldn't be better than spending the holidays at Hermione's home with people who cared about him._

_"Harry?"_

_"Hmm?" he said, watching another "snowball" crawl through the air on its slow descent to the ground._

_"What are you thinking? You look so strange."_

_"I'm just glad to be here." _

_"Me too," Hermione said with a happy sigh, casting a fond look at a large portrait of her mum, dad, and herself smiling in front of an elegant Christmas tree alight with candles. "It's a lovely Christmas."_

_"Yeah," Ron affirmed. "And the company's not half bad once Hermione's had a mead or two."_

_Hermione whacked him on the arm again. "I have one glass of wine with dinner. A small one. Dad doesn't let me have more than that."_

_"A pity," Ron sighed, moving aside out of immediate reach of Hermione's sharp elbows._

_Holding back a traitorous laugh that would likely bring the considerable wrath of Hermione down upon him, Harry closed his eyes and savoured the moment, committing it to memory so that he could look back to this day should he ever need to remember what friendship was. Because this was friendship, all of it. The warmth of the fire and its pleasant crackle; the giant-sized blizzard outside; and the blissful, complete feeling of companionship._

"Harry?"

The call brought him back to lonely, cold reality. Opening his eyes only deepened the disappointment. He looked blearily up at Perseus Hudson, who frowned at him with concern. From the man's slightly winded breathing, Harry guessed that he had called his name several times and had run to his room, worried by the lack of answer.

"I'm sorry," Harry croaked, sorry to have caused a fuss. He cleared his throat, trying for a brisker tone. "I didn't hear you call. I was...thinking."

"No harm done," said the older man, his tart voice suggesting that a repeat incident would be unwise. "Happy Christmas, by the way."

"Oh?" Harry glanced at the grandfather clock on the far side of his room, surprised. "Oh, it is. I hadn't realised the hour. Sorry."

"You shouldn't apologise so much."

"Sor--" Harry smiled faintly and caught himself. He could tell that Perseus was trying to cheer him up, and he did appreciate the effort. "Happy Christmas to you, too."

Perseus smiled back, but seemed to be waiting for something, but Harry couldn't puzzle out what it possibly could be, so he just waited, sure that Perseus would let him know after too long a silence. That was something Harry really liked about him: he wasn't afraid to let you know when you did something wrong.

"No doubt you miss your relatives," Perseus said finally, as if the awkward silence had been little more than a brief pause in the conversation. "If you'd like to contact Albus, I am sure he would let you send your holiday greetings."

Oh. Perseus wondered why he had so little holiday cheer. And he didn't really feel like explaining how, after losing so much, he had little love for Christmas. "He didn't tell you? My family is dead."

"Oh." The older man shifted, looking uncomfortable with his social blunder, but sympathetic. "Not even an aunt or uncle or cousin...a lady friend, perhaps?"

"No," said Harry, just refraining from adding 'My aunt and uncle actually hated me, and I ended up killing them.' That would really go over well. Then he thought hesitantly about Remus and Sirius and his panic button.

"How about a friend?"

Damn the man, if nothing else he was persistent. "I don't know..."

"If you're thinking that talking to your friends on Christmas will trouble them, you must not think very highly of them."

Harry reached into his pocket, running one finger over the panic device. "I think they're a bunch of fools, choosing me for a friend," he said softly, without any real rancour, "but other than that...they are very important to me."

"Then it's settled," Perseus said firmly, grabbing Harry by the sleeve and dragging him all the way to the big fireplace on the first floor of the house. He took out a handful of what looked like red and green Floo powder and threw it in the tall fire. "Albus Dumbledore, Christmas two-thousand and three."

A familiar bearded head materialised in the flames. One hand appeared to adjust a pair of half-moon spectacles. "Perseus! It is a pleasure to see you after so long a time...but no, forgive an old man his forgetfulness! It can't have been very long for you. Happy Christmas, and how is your charge?"

"His charge is right here," Harry said. "And can speak for himself, on occasion."

"Ah, but Harry, the question calls for another's judgement. What you consider to be 'well' for yourself is often very different from what the rest of us perceive it to be. And I think, likely accurately, that you would answer 'fine' if young Perseus here had a wand at your throat."

Perseus looked taken aback to have been referred to as "young" Perseus, and he smiled slightly before flicking a glance at Harry. "He is brooding some, Albus, so I thought I would see if any of his friends would be available for conversation? Even just to exchange holiday greetings?"

Harry, while not particularly pleased with be talked about as though he were still a student at Hogwarts (which, as it happened, he _was_ in a manner of speaking, but that didn't fully count), didn't voice any complaint, instead waiting impassively for the headmaster's answer, trying not to look as though a negative response would bother him at all.

"Why, yes. I think I might transfer this over to Grimmauld Place." Dumbledore vanished with a parting smile. The fire crackled more enthusiastically and abruptly changed colour a few times before another head popped into the flames.

"Harry?" Sirius called uncertainly. Upon spotting him, his face broke into a grin. "You actually floo'd us? Remus," he said to someone out of view, "my two galleons, please."

"You two bet on whether or not I would try to talk to you?" Harry said incredulously.

"Just a small one," Sirius said with a disarming grin. He shook his head. "Look at you...you look so different. Disguised, obviously, but there's still quite a bit of you in there. Uncanny, really."

"I'm afraid you're wrong about my calling you," Harry said. "I didn't try to reach you. It was Perseus here who did it. He's...um, well, he's the man I stay with. Posing as my uncle."

"Your honesty is appreciated, Harry," a voice called out. "Sirius, my money, thank you. And it is polite to share, so if you would please...?" Remus's head replaced Sirius's in the fire. He studied Harry thoughtfully. "You look gaunt." He turned to Perseus. "Make sure he eats enough. He won't, left to his own devices."

"_If_ you lot are quite finished taking turns at playing 'mother,'" Harry sighed.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," Remus said gently.

Sirius's voice jumped out of the fire, "And as to that last bit, _someone_ has to!"

"Happy Christmas, Remus," Harry answered with a nod. "And even you, Sirius. Happy Christmas."

"And to you. You especially. Move over, now, Remus. As you put it, you need to _share_." Sirius reappeared. "Merlin, I never thought I'd be asking you this again, but how is school?"

"And your marks?" called out Remus.

"And if you say 'fine,' I'll throttle you once you're home again," Sirius said with a frown. "We know that, well, _he's_ there."

"School is difficult," Harry admitted quietly, carefully ignoring the last comment. "Going to classes, now, like I did before, but the faces are all different."

"And your ghosts? Have you been seeing them?"

"Oh, enough about the bloody ghosts, Remus. Harry doesn't want to talk about them _now._ It's Christmas!"

Grateful for an excuse not to talk about his ghosts, Harry answered the previous question. "Marks are fi--good. Especially Charms. I'm flaunting my defence charm skills."

Looking worried, Perseus entered the conversation. "Defence charms? Like shields?"

"They are a specialty of Harry's," Sirius said proudly. "Best shield wizard in centuries."

"Did this Riddle seem very interested in them?" Perseus demanded.

"Yes, actually." Harry frowned, wondering how Perseus had guessed. "And he has been testing me quite a bit during our 'study' sessions. I've worked up to the third layer of shielding, but I told him I can go beyond sometimes if pressed."

"To _fourth_ layer?"

"Harry is _very_ skilled at the shield charm," Remus affirmed.

"How far can you go?" Perseus asked, sounding intrigued despite his horrified expression.

"I have reached the seventh, once." Harry remembered the circumstances and felt as though every source of heat in the room had been abruptly extinguished. His breath hitched in his throat as the memory began to draw him in and reality started blinking in and out to the sounds of screaming and explosions.

"Harry? Harry! Bugger all, you _had_ to ask..." Sirius began to speak soothingly to Harry. "Harry, it's over. You're here, you're safe. Remus and I are right here, and your friend Perseus, too. Remember where you are? Far away, in the past.... That's all over. Finished. No one can hurt you here."

Looking uncertain, Perseus drew his wand. "A quick stunning sp--"

"No!" Remus said quickly. "Far too dangerous. Drawing a wand on Harry and hexing him while he's like this...he would likely hurt you. And feel horrible about it for days."

The Auror frowned. "Would it help if I shook him?"

"Not yet. Don't touch him yet--Sirius, please move out of the way, you know that I handle this better than you." Remus replaced Sirius again in the fire. "He will react violently if you touch him now, while he's so out of it. We need to talk to him first."

"Should I...?"

"Let me," Remus said, gazing at Harry, who stood motionless except for the occasional violent shudder that wracked through him. When he spoke, his voice was less gentle, with a hint of command in it. "Wake up, Potter!"

A flicker of awareness surfaced in his eyes, almost lost in the tide of emotions.

Remus nodded to Perseus. "It's probably safe to touch him now."

The old Auror gripped Harry's shoulder and gave it a rough shake. Harry blinked slowly, and visibly drew himself back into reality. He shook his head, a light, embarrassed flush replacing the pale and haunted look on his face.

"I'm sorry, I don't know why..." He looked at Remus helplessly.

"You might visit a psychowizard, Harry."

"I second that," Sirius called from somewhere out of view; Perseus nodded his agreement.

"Oh, for the love of...I don't need a psychowizard."

"No, I suppose zoning out when certain words trigger memories is _perfectly_ normal," Remus said dryly.

"Happy, happy Christmas," Harry sighed.

"Cheer up, Harry." Sirius pushed Remus out of the way and thrust his face into the fireplace. "It could be worse. You could be St. Mungo's material."

"Why is it that the only thing people can say to cheer me up is 'it could be worse'? That's almost _more_ depressing."

Sirius nodded gravely; then, he gasped as if struck with a sudden thought. "Maybe...maybe, you could _use your panic button_, then, and let your godfather and honourary godfather visit. Keep you from moping around in self-pity."

Harry couldn't help laughing. It chased away the last traces of dark and cold from his mind. "You never give up."

"I await the day when pig-headed stubbornness gives way to wisdom. Hopefully, that will be sometime this century."

"I'll do what I can to help that along," Perseus said, shaking his head with a smile at Harry.

Harry regarded him with an amused smile. "You can certainly try." He turned to Sirius, and the smile slipped away as his gaze lingered on the face-shaped flames. "I shouldn't keep you."

"On the contrary, I doubt you could get rid of us if you tried," Remus said.

"You know what I mean," he said severely, but the smile returned.

Sirius grinned back. "Fine, I can tell when I'm not wanted!" He nodded once at Perseus. "Pleasure to meet you. If you ever manage to get that panic button away from him, do him a favour and press it."

"Sirius!"

"Remus will be delighted to come. And maybe we'll find a way for me to tag along as well."

"Better to use it and not need it than to put yourself at risk, Harry," Remus said, replacing Sirius in the fire. "Please, take care. You are living in dangerous times."

Harry laughed again. "When am I not? Don't worry, Remus. I've grown up with this; I can handle it."

"Don't let anything happen to him," Remus said softly to Perseus. "He means more to us than he thinks."

Harry looked down, and when he looked back up at the fire, it was empty. He felt a warm glow in his chest that filled the usual aching emptiness. Perseus put his hands on his shoulders and squeezed.

"Those are two good friends you have, lad."

"Yes."

"Well, it's long past time for you to be in bed!"

Harry glanced at the tall clock next to the fireplace. One o'clock. He suddenly felt the hours he'd been awake and yawned. "You're probably right."

Perseus chuckled, and Harry raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, nothing. It's just--anyone who heard you say that would know you were no teenager."

"How so?"

"You should have argued, even if you were exhausted enough to fall on your face."

Rolling his eyes, Harry arranged his features into a sullen expression and made his voice petulant. "That's not true..."

"Ah, an uncannily accurate impersonation." He chuckled again. "Off to bed, now."

"A good Christmas to you, sir," Harry called behind him as he left the warm room.

"That's 'Uncle Perseus' to you, impertinent boy!"

That night, for the first time since he had arrived, his sleep was undisturbed by nightmares.

-- -- -- -- --

**Revised: 14 November 2004**


	3. Playing Their Games

Working title: Extrapolation 

Author: Aedalena

Rating: PG-13, R in later chapters

Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Angst

Summary: Harry Potter travels back to the year 1944 to help the Dumbledore of that time defeat the Dark Lord Grindelwald. But there's a catch: only a select number of people can know that he's from the future--and Dumbledore's not one of them. And Grindelwald isn't the only thing Harry has to worry about. An old enemy is helping his new enemy...a Hogwarts student by the name of Tom Riddle. How far will Harry go to see Grindelwald dead? And will he learn to let his own dark past lie?

Thank you: LexiGurl, for all of her editing. Thank you, all who have reviewed and followed this story despite failing hopes that you will ever see its end.

This chapter: Battles of magic and the mind. Humour and exasperation. WARNING! This chapter contains implied rape and torture. If this offends you, stop at the start of the flashback, or press that handy 'back' button.

Extrapolation- n. (mathematics) calculation of the value of a function outside the range of known values

**Chapter Three: Playing Their Games**

_"It is twice the pleasure to deceive the deceiver." –Jean De La Fontaine_

-- -- -- -- --

  
When he returned to Hogwarts, Harry could feel a tangible tension in the air. Teachers became irritated more easily. Curfew was enforced more firmly and violators punished more severely. The school itself showed traces of thickening apprehension. The stairs changed often, almost moodily—usually at the most inconvenient moment and often when students were still on them. 

The Gryffindors were gruffer than usual. The Ravenclaws snapped at anyone disturbing their quiet studying and rarely passed up the opportunity to ridicule members of any other house, and the Slytherins were especially vindictive; the school's healer could hardly keep up with the number of hexed students. Even Harry's own Hufflepuffs found their patience tried by the electrified atmosphere, their innate good humour conspicuously absent. Harry had never seen such an equal spread of low house points.

At the rate things were going, they would all be in the negatives soon.

It wasn't a natural tension. At least, it wasn't uniform. Professor Grimm and Harry's "study partners" remained untroubled and observed the school's heightened nervousness with something approaching smugness. It reminded him uncomfortably of the way the Slytherins acted his fifth year at Hogwarts.

Most frustrating of all, he had not received a single letter from Perseus. Something important must have happened in the outside world to upset the very atmosphere at the school to such a degree. But what? And why had he heard nothing of it? Nothing but the faintest of whispers from either quarter, while the professors grew more and more haggard. It had been a long time since Harry had been as bereft of information as now. It made him nervous.

"Watch it!" muttered a sixth year housemate of Harry's when he stumbled into the younger boy's path.

His own mood wasn't untouched by the school's atmosphere, especially as day after day passed without him receiving a post. He kept catching himself clenching his wand tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. Every time his Sense warned him of an approaching student, he felt himself go on alert. It was an automatic reflex, one he couldn't even control, to his dismay. Worse still was when his Sense failed him and a student happened to startle him.

He only stopped himself from hexing the startled student each time with a supreme effort of will and control. Not surprisingly, constantly holding his wand at the ready as though only a few thoughts away from hexintg someone did nothing good for his reputation.

And then there was the study group. With them, he tried so hard to relax that he usually accomplished little more than to make himself stiffer with the anxiety of putting up a believable, false front. And they weren't even the most frustrating problem he had to deal with. It was smug, creeping, never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Professor Grimm and his love affair with dark magic. If Harry had to cast one more bleeding spell in UDA, he'd practise it on the bastard himself.

But as if having to perform for everyone else in the school everyday wasn't enough, Dumbledore, master of seeing through any charade (discounting those countless Defence Against the Dark Arts professors during his school days, but the old headmaster had been, well, older), had taken an interest of his own in Harry. He'd probably heard about his strange talent for defence spells and had set out to "save" Harry from Grimm and his nasty employer.

As if he needed saving from anything but this school. Harry sighed as he saw the auburn-haired Dumbledore approach. His attempts to evade the old professor and his meddling weren't always successful. His Auror instructors would have been appalled.

"Good evening, Harry," the professor said.

"Hello, Professor Dumbledore," Harry answered wearily. Then, remembering that Hufflepuffs in general spoke more than that, he hastened to inquire about the wizard's health.

"Oh, well enough, well enough, however crushing my disappointment at receiving only books for Christmas. I cannot seem to escape the things. And you, Harry?" His glance was so intense and welcoming that for a second Harry felt like he was speaking to his Dumbledore.

"I could really use—" He caught himself and shrugged. "I'm fine. Just heading to my study group."

The future headmaster half-frowned, a strange expression on him. "Yes, that's right. Mr Riddle's study group. I've heard quite a deal about it. What is it that you study?"

"Most practice Understanding the Dark Arts and Transfiguration and quite a bit of charms. I do mostly defence and potions." Ah, if Snape could only see him now.

"Defence," mused the professor. "Professor Thyme mentioned to me that you managed to cast a spectacular shield charm. Well done."

Harry's Sense prickled as he felt another professor approach, and he barely refrained from groaning or charming himself invisible. Professor Grimm. As though Dumbledore weren't enough.

"I see you have been speaking to one of my star pupils, Professor Dumbledore," said Grimm, smiling with his customary smugness as Harry and Dumbledore turned to face him.

"Yes. I was congratulating him on a well cast defence spell."

Harry wanted to slink away, but he was caught between the two older wizards. Under different circumstances, it might have been amusing to see them try and out-glare each other while simultaneously endeavouring to appear like they were on good terms. A doomed attempt, though Harry did not dare tell them. It would be rather like insulting a pair of old, cranky dragons. And now that he thought about it, there was something of a resemblance…

"That reminds me," said Grimm, moving a bit so Harry could look at him. His tone was gloating, which meant he was up to something. "Harry, I have been consistently impressed by the quality of your spells. I think that you could go far in my field. Would you be interested in some private lessons?"

Merlin's teeth, that man had gall. And a dangerous lack of subtlety. He might as well have proclaimed, "Well, my boy, you've the makings of a damned fine dark wizard. Let's do some black magic, and see if this old fool will do anything about it."

If his intent was to rile Dumbledore, he certainly succeeded in that, at least. Dumbledore looked like he had just swallowed his infamous vomit-flavoured jelly bean, and Harry probably would've too if it weren't for the iron control he'd practised and practised (though practise only went so far, and when his patience ran out, so help him, he'd…). But Dumbledore regained his bearing quickly. "My deepest condolences, Professor. I believe that the Hogwarts charter prohibits the teaching of Dark Arts outside of class, even by such...highly regarded teachers as yourself."

"I—" Grimm stopped, a tiny frustrated frown flitting across his face for a moment. Harry inwardly cheered and contemplations of homicide receded somewhat. "I had forgotten. Of course. Though perhaps the headmaster might make an exception..."

"Come now, Garrick," said Dumbledore good-naturedly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "The boy hasn't even expressed an interest. For all we know, he might wish to retire to a remote island and live out his life as a hermit once he leaves Hogwarts."

They both looked at him expectantly. Harry shrugged, struggling to maintain a neutral expression.

Dumbledore smiled at him. "Once again, magnificent job, Harry."

"Thank you, professor." Harry glanced at his watch not so subtly, delighted for once that he had to go his study group. The meeting had been scheduled much earlier than usual; it was still light outside. "Oh! I'd better hurry along, or I'll be late!"

With a quick smile and a cheerful wave, Harry fled, leaving the two teachers to their differences. Resolving not to run into anyone else who might bother him unless it was in the pursuit of information, he began his quiet walk to the library. The hall was unusually cold today. He tried not to notice how dim the torches seemed on his walks to meetings, but he never had been very skilled at self-delusion.

"Harry." The whisper was so faint he wanted to dismiss it as just a gust of wind. But out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the source. His ghosts were back. He closed his eyes, but he couldn't stop his ears. Several other familiar hushed voices joined the first, whispering a ghostly chorus of apologies, accusations, and regrets.

In a way, the ghosts were a comforting reminder that not everything changed. Well, they weren't actually _real_ ghosts. No one else could see them when he pointed them out. Remus had a thousand and one theories as to why Harry saw them. Harry had a thousand and one suggestions as to where Remus could shove his theories. And then Sirius had his several thousand reasons why Harry should see a psychowizard for his "problem." His own replies to Sirius were more often than not unrepeatable. He had learned from the best, after all: the two Marauders themselves.

Their haunting presence certainly did not cheer him any. And yet, they did calm him somehow. They grounded him, those echoes of the past. Perhaps he was delusional. Perhaps he had merely conjured them out of the dusts of his loneliness. The air suddenly thickened around him.

The voices rose in agitation, and a gust of wind tore through the hall. He opened his eyes, and dim outlines of his friends, colleagues, and enemies swirled before him. Harry looked away quickly. Hermione was screaming silently, her mouth opened in a soundless plea that he couldn't hear, but felt.

Shakily, he wondered what was happening. His ghosts had never manifested themselves physically. Nor had they ever appeared so tortured. The whispered howls stopped suddenly, as though cut off by some strange force. He opened his eyes again, afraid of what he might see.

The hall was empty again.

He trembled the entire rest of the trip to the library. But by the time he reached it, his fear and grief had solidified into anger. For once, he didn't care about hiding it behind an easy smile and laugh. He slammed the door open, earning a glare from the librarian. Defiantly, he closed it just as hard, matching murderous stare for murderous stare. She pursed her lips disapprovingly, but looked away and said nothing.

Harry strode to the back of the library, to the table closest to the restricted section. He dropped his books carelessly on the meeting table, ignoring the somewhat startled looks of his study partners, who had never seen him in such a foul mood.

"What?" he snapped, violently jerking a book open. Some Ravenclaws looked ready to protest such cruel abuse of books, but most students quickly glanced away. Even Riddle, used to a complacent, good-natured Harry, appeared taken aback.

"Anything wrong, Harry?" one student ventured.

"Of course not. If something were wrong, I would be cross, and we can easily see that I'm chipper as a Third Year high on a cheering charm."

"Ah."

Half-heartedly, he tried to clear away his frown. His efforts just distorted it into a bared smile. One girl, a Ravenclaw, made a hesitant attempt at conversation.

"Maybe we can help. Would you like to tell us what's wrong?"

The black mood would not be shaken, and the scowl returned full force. "I would if I had the slightest suspicion someone might care beyond using it as fodder for gossip."

"Pardon me for being friendly," the girl muttered, shrinking back.

"Don't be stupid. If you're friendly, it's an accident and a side effect of nosiness."

Then he noticed how childish and out of character he was acting and clamped his mouth shut. Deciding to ignore his study partners, if only to prevent more outbursts, he flipped the pages of his defence book to the shield charm section and pretended to read, which was frightfully boring. He'd memorised the text years ago, under the influence of more sleep-warding potions than he liked to recall.

He was immeasurably relieved when Riddle got to his feet. The Slytherin Prefect gestured for silence and conversations immediately ceased. Harry had to swallow the sudden urge to speak just to be contrary. What was _wrong_ with him today?

"I have decided to do something different for this meeting," Riddle said. Despite his irritation with the brainless sycophants surrounding him, Harry felt a stirring of interest. "We will head out by the lake and practise duelling. You'll be split into two opposing teams."

Damn Riddle and his study groups, Harry groused, his interest gone. Fat lot of good a mock battle would be if he couldn't practice anything without giving himself away. And how long would it take? He did a quick mental calculation. There would be eighteen students on each team, if Riddle participated. That could make for a lengthy fight. Then again, this was mini-Voldemort who would be participating. _Scratch that, I give them one minute before he trounces them. Well, without me to balance things, anyway. But isn't that what I do all the time? Balance?_

"This way."

Minutes later, the students were outside, stamping their feet on the snow to shake off the cold. Harry watched them with amusement, warm under his heating charm, wondering why they didn't use one. Then again, the sheer amount of magical energy it took to keep the charm up longer than a dozen minutes—well. And it was strangely gratifying to see the young snots suffer the biting chill while he remained comfortable.

The students clumsily clumped into groups as Riddle divided them, huddling closely for warmth. Once again, Harry marvelled that of all these intelligent students, not a one thought to use magic to overcome the cold. Hermione would've had a spell ready for Ron and him before they left the school.

His face darkened, and he remained lost in a world of gloomy thoughts until Riddle signalled the start of the skirmish.

Instantly, there was chaos, and no time to dwell on anything aside from not being trampled by some graceless student. Students half tripped over each other trying to get to their opponents. Bumbling and uncertain, like a bunch of Firsties trying their magic for the first time. There was a lot of force and power, but it was clumsily aimed. What good was a handful of powerful spells, if they never reached their targets?

His quick eyes spotted the spell speeding toward him. Harry dodged and erected a glowing shield around most of his teammates. They smiled gratefully at him, and Harry winced inwardly as a few distracted ones were hit by some newly learned curses. Had he been so green once? Slipping, sliding, knocking Ferguson over, tripping and almost breaking Ron's nose, accidentally hexing Corson himself... The memories his mind obligingly conjured brought a blush to his face.

He noticed an equally exasperated expression on Tom Riddle's face. The Slytherin was on the opposing team, and they were doing as poorly, if not worse, for all of Tom's furious casting. Harry contented himself with maintaining the shield and letting the rest of his group do the fighting, but when a duo actually hexed each other (how, Harry could not begin to imagine), he started giving quiet advice.

"Organise into trios and guard each other's back. You won't be hexed as often."

His advice was obeyed with the enthusiastic energy of an adrenaline-filled mob latching on to any voice of reason. He was quite certain that if he had told them to hold wands in a circle and chant nursery rhymes in even a remotely level-headed tone, they would have complied with blind obedience.

It took only a few carefully chosen words, but finally Harry's team to begin gaining the advantage. Gratified that years of working solo had not completely crippled his ability to command a team of wizards, he continued murmuring instructions until his Sense warned him of enemy students sneaking up, using the chaos of battle to cloak their slow crawl towards him.

Taking out the leader and main defence, he thought. One of Riddle's schemes no doubt. Feigning ignorance of the danger behind, he continued directing. Then, he took a step forward and "tripped." The curses just released from his hidden assailants sailed over his head, and curses of a different kind reached Harry's ears. He smiled devilishly and replied with a rude gesture, which was met by more swearing. Alerted by the wild curses, his teammates rushed to the aid of their shield wizard.

They were actually learning (amazing though the phenomenon seemed). Harry smiled delightedly, wondering if teachers felt like this all of the time. Then again, Fred and George and all of their antics just might be enough to offset any warm fuzzies. He stifled a snicker.

The inclination to laugh turned to surprise as he became aware of a strange burning sensation on his chest. He glanced up, startled, and met Tom Riddle's eyes across the small battlefield. A hex. A test of his defence abilities? Harry casted a protective spell on himself, and relaxed slightly when the pain subsided.

The opposing team, at a great disadvantage without a shield, buckled quickly. Soon only Riddle remained, and Harry remembered the Slytherin's final stand with awe and admiration for weeks afterward. It was as if Riddle did not even need to move his wand or mouth. All colours of magic spilled out of it, in an almost continuous beam of punishing force. The students outside of Harry's protected circle fought well, but could not stand the onslaught. Only those under his protection remained standing.

In the end, it came down to Riddle's curses against Harry's shield. Harry agonised over keeping his shield up—no easy feat against a wizard of Tom Riddle's power—and letting it fall. Would he appear too skilled if he didn't drop it? But somehow he knew that if he gave in, Riddle would know he was holding back.

So he held his shield, though he did allow it to ripple a few times to give his fighters incentive to work harder. It was odd not being on the offensive, he thought, as he watched the battle. One hex finally got through Tom Riddle's considerable defences, but he still found strength to take a student with him as he fell.

Still shaking his head with amazement at his opponent's skill, Harry tallied the Slytherin's "kills." Riddle had "killed" about eighty percent of his remaining team—twelve wizards!

While the students left standing walked to their fallen classmates and revived them, Harry took down his shield. He was surprised to discover that his limbs were stiff, and that sometime during the battle he had become very sweaty. He was out of shape, no doubt due to his rather long break from casting any advanced magic. There had to be an abandoned room he could use somewhere to practise the complex magic he was accustomed to.

He looked up sharply at the sound of a hoot, and picked out a small owl flying toward him at a staggering velocity. He dropped to the ground, and if the rush of air above his head was any indication, he had done so just in time. The owl looped around and dropped a thick, rolled up bundle of parchment. Harry caught it, puzzled.

He read the first lines quickly. The letter was from Uncle Perseus. As he read on, his foul temper returned.

_…and Grindelwald's attacks continue to grow in frequency and ferocity. He is increasingly more confident, though we're not certain why. There have been no indication that he is planning for a mass attack like he did the week before you arrived, thankfully, but I am still filled with a sense of foreboding. _

We don't know where these sudden resources of his have come from. By our last estimates, he should not be able to conduct raids as frequently as he is. And that is not all. A few old contacts of mine have heard whispers of Hogwarts itself being infiltrated. I know that this is the very reason you are there, but if what they tell me is correct, the school is in even more danger than we believed it to be. Don't limit yourself to thinking that the only supporters he has are the ones you can easily spot. I have fallen into that trap before, been blinded by overconfidence, only to find myself attacked by someone I would never have suspected. I trust that you will take every necessary precaution.

Call me a sentimental old coot, but I do worry about you. Something about you reminds me of...someone I knew a few decades back--a young firebrand who was always getting himself into and out of myriad messes. And before you owl me back with a dozen reasons I should trust in your abilities (and don't deny that that was the first thing on your mind, young man), listen to me.

I know you are here to help defeat Grindelwald, but that doesn't mean you must do this alone. I met your godfather and his friend at Christmas, of course, and Dumbledore explicitly told me that one of them is ready to help you if you need him. And if you don't wish to risk them (don't pretend that this isn't your main concern), I want you to know that if you ever need a friend, or I suppose that would be uncle, I am here. I've seen countless young Aurors like you burn out, burn up, and burn things up, over the years. If you need to do one of those three, try for that last one, will you? You've got one friend willing to help you out with that, in any case.

Harry folded the letter and sat down heavily. Other club members milled around him chatting excitedly about the battle as if it were something grand, and though he thought the comparison to the Battle of the Founders rather unwarranted, he ignored them, instead thinking intensely about the wizarding world's worsening state of affairs.

"You seem troubled," said Tom Riddle, the stiffness with which he sat next to Harry a testimony to his previously Stunned condition.

Harry shifted warily, but inspiration struck as it was prone to do just when situations seemed beyond repair. Grasping for his earlier grouchiness (though it really wasn't that difficult), Harry nodded and stuffed the letter in his pocket. "It's my uncle. He's displeased with me."

"Your uncle?"

"Yes," said Harry nonchalantly. "He used to be an Auror. Perseus Hudson, have you heard of him?"

"Perseus Hudson?" Riddle's voice raised an octave. Harry suppressed a smile at the near reverent tone. Then he frowned. No ordinary Auror would merit that much regard from someone like Riddle. Just who was Perseus, anyway? "He's your uncle?"

"Yes," he continued mournfully, slipping fully into his role of disgrunted nephew. "He doesn't like me attending these study groups. He says I should be able to work on my own. In fact, he threatened to pull me out of Hogwarts if I didn't quit! Would you believe that? I thought he would be glad I was learning something."

Riddle practically glowed with excitement. "What's the matter? Does he seem worried? Tell me about it," he demanded. "Did he mention my name?"

"Worried? I suppose," Harry said with a shrug. "As for your name...in fact, he did talk about you once or twice. Said you weren't suitable company, though I can't begin to imagine why." Harry was rather proud of his ability to say that with a straight face. "But then, he never was a great fan of Slytherins. Or even Gryffindors for that matter; you should hear what he says about Wilson Hawkfeather."

"Not suitable company," echoed Riddle, seeming to completely disregard the last two sentences, looking giddy as a teenager preparing to take his apparation test. No doubt "worrying" a famed Auror was one of the greatest accomplishments of his young life. Harry suppressed a snort of amusement. If Perseus' letter was any indication, an owl looking at him funny would worry the Auror.

"We've been through this before, of course. Again and again, I tell him that I'll do what I want. I'm not a child anymore—I can make my own decisions. But he just doesn't seem to listen."

"That's right," encouraged Riddle, eyes bright with glee. As this image of Riddle, about ready to break into a jig, juxtaposed with one of his future self, the malevolent Voldemort in his mind, Harry didn't know whether to burst out laughing or be afraid. "You should cultivate your independence, instead of letting your uncle choose what to do with your life."

Harry nodded emphatically. When the Slytherin did not speak again, the he struggled to his feet, a surprisingly wearing feat. He attributed the difficulty to the overtaxing of his magic. Magic, like a muscle, had to be exercised to stay in top form. And, Harry thought ruefully, overuse could make a person feel "sore."

Riddle dismissed the club, but Harry did not return to the school with the other students. Instead, he watched the sky mix its pastel pinks and vibrant blues into the deep indigo of night. The wind blew through far off trees; the gentle rustle of their needles sounded almost like rain. His good spirits fell slowly.

How many times, he asked himself. How often had he sat outside with Ron and Hermione, appreciating just _being_ with them, taking in the beauty of the sights around them? Far too seldom. And how many years would he regret that?

Now he viewed those sights by himself, while something deep within him ached like an old wound that had never been allowed to heal. Nature only compounded loneliness when a person gazed alone.

Soon the stars would wink into existence. It would be wise to go inside before he thought himself into yet another self-pitying depression. But he didn't move; he kept watching. He should go...but to hell with common sense. A person had to indulge in some cold angst every once in a while.

Harry closed his eyes, both to block out the painfully beautiful night (if any time of day belonged to him, it was bloody dusk) and to banish his melancholy. To his surprise, it receded somewhat, to be replaced by a different pain. He struggled to identify this new misery, then, with a start of shock, he realised what it was. He was lonely, yes, but more--he was homesick. Homesick, of all things! He wanted to go home to the friends he had deserted and spend time with them. Before they, too, were lost to the hungry spectre of death that followed him everywhere.

How like him, to have run away from his problems without realising it.

"Back then, I never really thought about missing them," he commented to the empty night. Silence was such a good listener. "Why should I have? I never imagined they'd be gone someday. And now that I know what it feels to lose friends, I'm too afraid to spend time with the ones I have." He laughed suddenly. "Besides, I'm shouldn't have attachments. Not after Ginny. Especially not after C-Ch—ah hell. I still bloody can't say her name. It's not worth it. They'll just...get in the way."

He made a face at his own words, for once looking his young age. "Ugh, listen to me. Why does that sound so stupid now when it made sense before? Staying away from Sirius and Remus and Tonks won't make it hurt any less wh--if Voldemort kills them. Look at me!" He laughed again. "Running away from the few reasons I have to live. Well done, Harry. Brilliant. You've had an epiphany, too many years too late. Story of your life."

He reached into a pocket and felt for the panic button. Dumbledore had told him to use it if he was ever lonely…but the he shook his head uncertainly and withdrew his hand. He should save the device for emergencies.

All half-formed ideas about going home scattered as alarm rippled through his Senses. An aura which he quickly identified as Riddle was heading towards him. He quickly got to his feet (wishing his sore muscles would just shut up, for Merlin's sake, he knew they were tired!) and gauged the distance to Hogwarts entrance. Could he enter before Riddle met up with him?

"Williams!"

He sighed and let the Slytherin approach. "What?"

"I'm glad I found you out here. It will make things easier."

Easier? He didn't like the sound of that. He took his wand discreetly out of his robes. "Easier?" he echoed.

"Why did you stay outside?" said Riddle, ignoring Harry's inquiry. "The others returned over an hour ago. Dumbledore sent me out to get you. You're worrying the professors."

Had it been a whole hour? "Oh. I didn't mean to cause any alarm. I was just...thinking."

"In the cold?' asked the other wizard doubtfully.

"Cold is why wizards invented heating charms."

"Heating charms!"

From the sheepish expression on Riddle's face, Harry guessed that he, like all the others, had not thought of casting one. Not very bright as a pup, were you, Voldemort?

"You might try one sometime."

"Yeah." The Slytherin eyed Harry shrewdly. "You know? You're pretty smart for a Hufflepuff."

Hm, thought Harry warily. What to do with that statement? Well, at least it gave him an opening for a lecture. He needed to vent some steam, and ranting about inter-house prejudices--which he'd discovered in his post-Hogwarts years were extremely useless and more often than not completely wrong anyway--seemed a safe enough way to do that.

"Don't be stupid. Trying to judge a person by his house is pointless." His mood lifted as he gathered momentum. And it wasn't every day you had the chance to call a feared dark lord "stupid" to his face.

"You Slytherins think you're so cunning, but what about Ravenclaws? So are they, in a different way. They have their own ambitions, but they hide it better beneath books and patience. And Gryffindors aren't always brainless and rash. Their ideas might seem simple, but sometimes those are most useful. There are fewer things than can go wrong. At least a Gryffindor will never have to regret having the chance to do something and not do it. They're very impulsive.

"And Hufflepuffs. We're a hardworking lot, but don't mistake our enthusiasm as compensation for lack of intelligence or magical ability. I know many people from my class that are very intelligent." A lie, actually; he didn't know his housemates too well, a fact which he planned to soon rectify. "You shouldn't judge people as a group unless you plan to regard them as one your whole life. Get to know a person individually if you want to know if he's smart or foolish or cowardly. That's the only way you can be sure."

"A philosophical Hufflepuff. Now I've seen everything."

Harry nodded amicably and prepared to continue his rant but stopped abruptly in surprise. The Slytherin had been—teasing? Disconcerted, Harry drew his robes tighter.

"So. What do you want?"

"I want you to meet someone."

"Meet—oh, all right. Lead on." At last, some results.

Riddle shook his head. "No. We need to use a Portkey."

Very suspicious now, Harry studied the cold snow on the ground. "Right. Well, bring it out."

The other wizard's hand dipped into his pocket, bringing out a transparent, red sphere that reminded Harry of the prototype Remembrall. He reached out to touch the object, firmly restraining the impulse to flee. Though he had prepared himself for the unpleasant pull that accompanied Portkey travel, the harsh jerk that snatched him from Hogwarts was so violent, he almost blacked out.

The world finally came back into focus, so promptly that Harry wondered which had been the most disorienting: the ride there, or the aftershock. Riddle steadied him, and Harry murmured his gratitude. He felt the urge to straighten his glasses, which was odd. He had not worn them in years.

A pleasant voice interrupted the unnatural calm of this new place. "Tom has told me many...interesting things about you, Mr Williams."

Grindelwald. Even without Dumbledore's pictures, he would have known, somehow. Harry's Sense snapped into use. He reached out with it to feel the evil wizard's magical signature and nearly jumped back with a surprised yelp. He had recently started associating colours with magical auras, and Grindelwald's was darker than anything he had ever come across (although he guessed that Voldemort would "feel" similar; his skill at Sensing had been almost less than nothing before defeating the Dark Lord).

The black would not have been so horrible if it weren't for the strong, almost magnetic pull it had, like a black hole. The man's magic sucked at every living thing around him.

"Who are you?" he asked, obligingly ignorant and dense, like one of those overrated heroes in Muggle telly. And, though he was loath to admit it, like most famous Gryffindor heroes.

"I am called Grindelwald." There was no gloating or pride, a fact that was worrying. Harry knew how to deal with egotistical dark wizards. They were actually very simple to deal with, if such a term could be applied to hunting dark wizards. It was the practical ones you had to worry about.

The first curse came without warning. With the lightning reflexes of years of duelling and a muttered _"Protego,"_ Harry threw up a light barrier. A small pause, and the second curse, much stronger, hurtled toward him. He pulled at the strings of magic in the air and wove his second barrier. It was barely enough—the shield wobbled and groaned under the pressure.

Without waiting for the next spell, Harry added the third layer of shielding. The instant it settled in place, two spells tore at the dome. Wonderful. Voldemort-in-training had decided to join in. Practising Harry-bashing early on; no wonder he was so good at it.

Gritting his teeth, Harry focussed all his efforts on keeping the shield up. Really wishing that he had been exercising his magic more, he summoned a fourth layer. This was bad, he told himself in the very brief pause he allowed himself for thinking. He very rarely went beyond fifth layer. Because if things were desperate enough that you needed it, chances were it would buy you only a few extra seconds to make peace with the deity of your choice.

The next assault was stronger; Harry almost fell to his knees under the strain. Only iron control and a healthy supply of frustration and annoyance kept the shield from falling.

Steadying himself, violently burying terrifying thoughts of defeat and capture as deep as he could, Harry invoked the fifth barrier. This would not be enough, he knew. With demonic speed, he gathered the magic around him and whispered another incantation, building the rarely used sixth layer of protection. One Unforgivable…then another…and a third. They bounced away, although each impact made Harry dizzy with weakness. He was about to attempt the impossible and risk the seventh barrier when he finally remembered the panic button. And then the attacks stopped.

"I told you," said Riddle very calmly to his fellow dark wizard.

"I always like to know how skilled my defence wizards are. The best way to discover this is to attack before they trust me. Your Hufflepuff certainly passed the test." That even voice sounded impressed—he damn well better sound impressed, Harry thought darkly, taking heaving breaths to recover from the huge energy expenditure. He's just lucky I didn't have time to prepare myself for the offensive.

"I'm floored by your friend's hospitality, Riddle," he gritted out, taking down the shield carefully and trying not to sound as winded and exhausted as he felt. Or as irritated as he felt. "As if the bloody 'key weren't enough."

"Well, you had a rather strong shield up during the mock battle. I was curious how much stronger it could be. Now I know."

With admirable restraint, he did not mutter the age-old phrase about feline mortality rates in relation to curiosity.

Grindelwald spoke next, soothingly, as if he were coaxing an injured animal to let him close. "We bear you no ill will. As your young classmate said, it was a test of your abilities. Your defence skills are quite formidable."

_Not as formidable as my offensive skills as I will be _delighted_ to demonstrate at a time of my choosing,_ Harry thought. But now was not the time, and he donned his mask of innocence yet again. "I'm not sure I understand. Why did you want to test my defence skills? This isn't school."

"It's quite simple," said Grindelwald, still maddeningly soothing. After Riddle's insensitivity, it was enough to calm Harry down somewhat. "What do you plan on doing after you graduate?"

Been there, done that, still doing it. Truthfully? Kill you. "I've never thought about it."

"You are very talented at defence," Riddle suggested a bit too quickly for it not to have been contrived. Ah well, Harry awarded him points for the attempt.

"My uncle—"

"Yes, your famous uncle. He has some suggestions for you, doesn't he? Perhaps too many." Even though his "uncle" had made no such suggestions--at least, not in the way Grindelwald meant--Harry felt a slight stirring of anger directed at Perseus. He quelled it hastily, and confusion replaced the feeling. Since when was he so fickle? "But you are not restricted to what he wishes you to do. There are other paths open to you, should you choose them. Whatever he might think, you are capable of making your own decisions. He doubts you, but you can prove your capability to him."

"I think I see," Harry said, carefully dropping his façade of simple-mindedness. "But I wouldn't really 'prove' anything to him. In fact, I won't be able to let him know."

"You do understand." The older man moved closer to Harry, smiling kindly. But he wasn't fooled. Er, he didn't think so, anyway. "Our needs complement each other. I am in need of a skilled defence wizard, and you need a purpose. Don't all young wizards?"

"You've killed people," Harry stated, curious to see how Grindelwald would respond to that. "Many of them."

"I do not deny it," agreed the other man. "What about your uncle? Has he never killed?"

"He has, yes."

"Aurors kill wizards as surely as my people do. Both use Unforgivables to accomplish this, don't they? The only difference is that they have the formidable backing of the government, unlike us. And yet, what crimes are we committing? Is desiring _change_ a crime? Is dreaming of progress wrong? And would you be committing such a crime to side with those you believe can accomplish more?"

"I couldn't—what would—" What was wrong with him? Why were his thoughts so muddled? Was he that tired from the shield spells? He tried to form a cohesive sentence. "How do I know you're the ones doing the right thing?"

"Ah, 'the right thing.' Always an ambiguous phrase. The right thing according to who? To your uncle? To me? To you?" Grindelwald chuckled softly. "It is not so simple to define. But--ask around. Observe. Surely you notice the disorder that hampers the effectiveness of our government? The shroud of chaos has fallen, leaving the future clouded and uncertain. Our wizarding nations are divided over the question of the war. Do our people participate in the Muggle war? No, it is forbidden. Yet how many would, if they were allowed? How many of our people die because of our neutrality, the very thing that supposedly keeps us safe?"

Clarity returned somewhat, and Harry suspected that the dark wizard had practised that speech many times, on many other people. "I don't know."

"Thousands. Can those of us who support the war effort be accused, then, of sinister intentions? I wish to save lives. The Muggle bombs that drop on our cities do not care who their targets are. Wizard, Muggle, they kill both without prejudice. If we were allowed to use _our_ weapons to protect ourselves, how many innocent lives would be spared? Surely that is a cause worth fighting for, even worth dying for. Perhaps killing for. That choice is difficult to make...but you must know where you stand when the time comes to decide."

His thoughts scrambled again. Harry closed his eyes, nauseated by the tingle of foreign emotions, a seemingly innocent stir of patriotic anger and eagerness to help this older wizard. What—was—wrong with him? He struggled to find where his feelings ended and the strange ones began. Some unseen fist released his mind, and he could once again think. This wasn't Legilimency. It was too...broad for that, somehow. Unfocussed. Could this be some hitherto unknown branch of mind magic?

"But how can I know?" he asked a bit shakily, trying to gather his wits. "How can I be sure what I'm doing is right?"

"You try," answered Grindelwald. "Try, and see if it feels right to you. I can give you that opportunity."

"I...I'll think about it."

"Good." Grindelwald smiled with quiet satisfaction, as though he'd already won. The sight sent chills up and down Harry's spine. "Do let me know what you decide. Tom will see you back to Hogwarts. Tom?"

"Take this, Harry." Riddle held out a different globe, a green one. Harry withheld a sigh of both relief and dismay as he put his hand over it. The brutal tug was even more jarring now that he anticipated it.

Swirls of colour melted into snow and sky and stars.

"Isn't there some way you can make the ride smoother?" he asked, massaging his pounding temples.

"No."

"Ah. It was worth a try."

The two wizards walked silently back to the school; Riddle's silence likely due to the importance of the last hour and Harry's because of a headache that would have amplified any sound twice as effectively as a Sonorus charm. Too drained to revel in the lack of attention his housemates paid to his late arrival (something that would have been the talk of the Gryffindor Tower, had this been Hogwarts during his years there), Harry fell into his bed.

"Night," he called out quietly.

"Night, Harry," chorused the other boys, who were engaged in the somewhat quieter pastime of wizard's chess. And at that moment, he would have given anything to be in his dormitory listening to Ron and Seamus and Dean play Exploding Snap, headache and all.

"Night, Ron," he mouthed, wondering if his silent ghost was listening. Not that it would matter. Few things did.

-- -- -- -- --

  
"Alohomora!" 

_Harry swore bitterly when the spell failed. He tried another lock-forcing spell of more questionable origin. It, too, failed. "They know we're here, and they've taken precautions. We're going to have to force our way in. Wands up." At his command, eight hands rose. "Aim." Eight wands steadied. "Cast!" _

_Eight beams of magic hit the door, closely followed by a thick ray that was searing with brightness, tempered by desperation. The sealed door groaned and a large crack formed in the middle. Pressing his lips together grimly, Harry performed the spell a second time. His sole effort smashed the door into a smouldering pile of splinters and molten iron. _

_He half-leapt into the misty room, but one of the Aurors, a grim, grey-haired one, pulled him back. "No. We're not risking you. Move in, boys." The seven other Aurors in Harry's unit obeyed the tall, imposing man who had spoken. Harry blinked eyes that were filling with tears not entirely caused by the smoke seeping from the exposed room. _

_"McClaude." His voice shook and he took a calming breath. "McClaude, please. I have to see. I want to—no. I have to know. Don't keep me from her. If she's still alive…She'll have—she'll need—" _

_The other man shook his head gently. Brushing at his eyes, Harry cursed again. He cursed the devotion of his men to their leader, the Death Eaters that taunted him by letting slip where they were holding Ginny before vanishing moments before he arrived, and most of all himself, because it had been his fault in the first place. _

_"It's not your fault," McClaude said firmly, correctly interpreting Harry's thoughts. Despite the man's advantage in both size and age, he seemed reluctant to physically keep his commander away from the carnage. "Let the men do their job. If the Death Eaters saw you…" He let the sentence trail off. There was no need to say more. _

_If the Death Eaters saw Harry they would either kill Ginny right then, or use her to force him to go with them. If she was even in there. Harry stopped his feeble struggles and squinted at the impenetrable grey that masked the actions taking place past the smashed doorframe. Finally, a shout was raised. _

_"Four dead, one survivor. We've got him secured, move out!" _

_Harry clenched his hands, ignoring the pain from where his fingernails cut into his skin. All seven Aurors re-entered the hallway, a cloaked figure held tightly, almost harshly, between two of them. The duo shoved the captive at Harry, who glared with such venom, the other men looked nervous. _

_"This one wants to speak with you," rumbled barrel-chested Greevar, eyeing "this one" with open distaste. "Thought we'd let you talk with him before handing him over to the pokers." _

_"The pokers" was the cheerful nickname most Aurors used when referring to the Interrogation Wizards. The term generally evoked a less positive response from prisoners. _

_"You will let me? Really, how generous," Harry said acidly. Greevar made an apologetic gesture. "Leave us." _

_His squad started to protest, but Harry shook his head fiercely. "Leave. No arguments." _

_In chagrined silence, the other Aurors shuffled out of the hall. As much as silent killers of dangerous capability can shuffle. _

_Harry studied the bound Death Eater in front of him, not bothering to mask his hatred and his fear for Ginny. Matters could explode if the two were further provoked. _

_"The Dark Lord has a message for you," said the captive softly, almost in a gloating singsong. _

_"Say it," said the young Auror through clenched teeth, his heart pounding wildly. Why was the Death Eater cooperating? He wasn't supposed to…it didn't make sense…Merlin, he didn't want to know what Voldemort had to say. _

_"He says to give up. Turn yourself in. If you do, he'll kill the girl. If you don't, he'll keep her alive." _

_"What do you mean, he'll kill her if I give in?" snapped Harry, in no mood for more of Voldemort's mind games. "That makes no sense." _

_"Makes perfect sense, if you know what happened to her." The Death Eater's lips curved upward in a horrible parody of a smile. "If you knew what happened to her, you'd beg us to let you kill her." _

_"You didn't—" Harry broke off, his mind unable to function for a moment. "Not dementors?" _

_"No," answered the other man breathlessly, taking obvious satisfaction in the reactions he'd provoked. "Not dementors. Men. Wands. Magic. Exactly like dementors but nowhere near as quick. She didn't want to scream, but she gave in, in the end. She had a beautiful scream. The kind that went on and on and you listen for hours to. Like music." _

_Harry had to remember to breathe. Inhale, exhale, do not kill the enemy, inhale, exhale. "You…" _

_"Just like a dementor kissed her. Pretty ornament, now, but no one home." The voice became mocking. "Too bad, really. Like buggering a zombie." _

_Exerting every ounce of willpower he had, Harry kept his wand at his side and his voice even, scornful. "And you really expect me to accept your demands?" _

_"The esteemed saviour of the world wouldn't turn himself in to release his best friend?" With a sardonic bark of disbelieving laughter, the man nodded at one pocket on his robes. "There is a password-activated Portkey in there. You could go right now. None of your Auror friends are here to stop you." _

_Harry hesitated, looking uncertainly at the slightly bulging pouch. It could very well be a regular 'key, designed to take him straight to Voldemort. Biting his lip, he reached and took a ballpoint pen out of the Death Eater's pocket. The potential of such disaster in so ordinary (so Muggle!) an object made Harry want to laugh. But if he did that, he feared he would be unable to stop. _

_"The invocation is 'Liberatio.'" Liberatio? Voldemort certainly had a keen grasp of the darkly ironic. Harry stared at the pen a moment longer in detached fascination, and then put it in his own pocket. "You might not want to take too long, making up your mind. Other things can happen. _

_"What can I say? Some men get a kick out of fucking a living corpse. Not that it matters. She was just a Muggle-loving whore anyway. Did she spread for you, before your engagement? Maybe she did after, no telling what those Muggle lovers will do. Say, you know what she kept screaming, when we tortured her? She kept screaming and screaming your—" _

_Harry's self control shattered. His wand arm was raised and aimed in less than a second. He fought to regain his calm, but the world was red and black and everything hurt, inside and outside. _

_"Ginny was my friend, and a remarkable woman," he growled, grinding his wand into the Death Eater's chest. _

_"Do it," said the man, showing no trace of fear. "Do it. Say it. Climb down from your pedestal and dirty yourself with some dark magic." _

_"I won't," said Harry weakly, the firmness of his wand arm belying his words. "I won't," he repeated, as if trying to convince himself. _

_"Maybe you shouldn't. Like you said, she's quite...'remarkable.' I would like to give her one more go, after my lord frees me." _

_Harry became very still. Suddenly, morals, ethics, his bloody oath not to use the Dark Arts unless absolutely necessary...all of it seemed empty. Worthless. He aimed his wand and said very firmly, "Avada Kedavra." _

_The flash of green light was deep emerald, a thing of nightmares for Harry. But it worked splendidly. The prisoner fell, a dreamy, satisfied look frozen on his face. Harry faintly heard the heavy thunder of footsteps running toward him and the anxious shouts. In seconds, McClaude was at his side, asking a thousand questions Harry could not answer. He studied the dead body calmly. _

_"I killed the prisoner," he remarked, the total lack of emotion in his voice so eerie he barely recognised it. "The pokers won't be happy." _

_"Are you all right, sir?" A tight, frightened voice—Freeman's. Greevar's rolling tones overrode the others' words. "Harry?" _

_"It's worse than being dead. She's worse off." A thousand images played through his mind. His best friend laughing with him, just when he needed to be cheered up. Bringing some new confection for him to try on a bad day. Late nights studying. Even later nights searching through hundreds of tomes in search of some way to defeat Voldemort. _

_"Harry, what did he—" It was McClaude again. "Damn that bloody Death Eater! What did he say to you? Harry?" The older man shook Harry, who made no response. "What did he say? What did he tell you?" _

_"The truth," Harry answered faintly, feeling the edges of the numbness starting to crumple. "He told me the truth. But I'd rather he'd lied." In little more than a whisper, "I could have taken it if he'd lied." _

_McClaude continued to speak, in increasingly urgent tones, but Harry could only gaze at the smirking corpse not two metres away. The room grew blurry and the he started shaking. He tried to stop but he couldn't; it didn't matter anyway, because Ginny was good as dead. He would never talk with her or share a joke with her again. Hear her laugh. See that sad smile she sometimes got when they talked about friends long dead. All because of Voldemort. All because of who he was. Because of a little blood. _

_"Give me a hand, Gregor." _

_"…get a psychowizard?" _

_"…knew we should have kept that bastard away from him…" _

_"…call Dumbledore…?" _

_"Quiet! Gregor, I want that thing out of my sight. Greevar, start the clean up, take Swanson and Jameson. Freeman, forget the goddamn pokers and get working!" McClaude shook Harry carefully. "Harry? I need you to move; you need to get out here." _

_Harry jerked his head back and forth. "Harry, give me your hand." The older Auror was almost pleading now. "Go on. Let's get you...somewhere safe." _

_The young man took the hand, trying to focus anywhere but the pain that slashed through him, inside where it hurt the most. He could only see Ginny's brilliant smile twist and distort into a grimace of pain and then a blank mask of nothingness. "There's a good lad. It will be all right. Another step now, that's good." _

_Was he moving? Was that him walking? It didn't feel like it… Harry felt for the pen that rested innocently in his pocket. And with a shaking voice, he whispered a promise to one loyal friend he knew he would keep. Some of the others looked around upon hearing the sound, but Harry did not meet the glances. _

_"Let's get you home," said McClaude with forced cheer. "Cho will be beside herself with worry." _

_Harry nodded, took a shuddering breath, and let go of the pen in his pocket. _

_-- -- -- -- --_

  


**Revised 25 April 2005**


End file.
